hi! this is a little one because i’m in some deep process with writer’s block right now. writer’s apathy, writer’s terror, writer’s boredom. you know? if you’re a writer, talk to me about this. i would appreciate it. anyway, thank you for being here.

for the last two weeks when i sat down to write, i wrote both times extensively about my shame, my fears, my obsessive tendencies. there’s a place for that kind of writing (although sometimes the place is in my journal), and i do think sharing from a not-perfect and vulnerable place can be helpful for many. for me, these past two weeks, i came away from each session feeling a strong “no” to share what i had written, which can be an infuriating experience, especially when fueled by shame and fear that i’d be judged for not publishing anything, or that someone will be disappointed in me. (i remember the piece i wrote recently about loving when someone is disappointed with me. it’s also one of the most devastating and terrifying experiences i can think of. i contain multitudes. i digress.)

then i think about all the substacks i subscribe to - amazing writers producing amazing pieces, personal and intimate, investigational and educational, emotional or lists of foods they ate the last week that take two minutes to read. i like seeing them in my inbox. sometimes i open them and read them. but i don’t notice when they don’t post as planned. i don’t even know what their plans are. i allow it to be possible that not everyone who’s subscribed to this newsletter eagerly clicks it open upon arrival. that’s okay. actually, it helps.

i started writing as a relational experiment, but with a focus on the relationship between me and the spirit of my writing rather than my relationship with you, the reader. it’s nothing personal. when i project that i’m being watched and tracked and expected to do something, most of my desire to do that thing goes out the window, but i give it a shot nonetheless and often feel dissatisfied with my attempt.

and then, there’s the mystery of discipline. paradoxes exist here - the more often i write, the more comfortable i will feel with writing, like how some babies sleep the more sleep they get. but sometimes, when i write, if my body or brain is feeling a no, a block, a freeze, and i ignore it and continue, the no becomes stronger to the point where i squeeze out a constipated piece that is dry and brittle, and i don’t feel excited to share it, and the next week i wake up in fear that writing doesn’t feel that way again.

this morning when i started writing, i almost immediately felt hunger pangs, realized i wanted rice and chicken and kimchi. “no,” i said to myself, “write first. then you can eat.” i accepted this grimly and started to tap out a few sentences. then the gentle parent in me came online - “oh my god, what the fuck? of course you can eat first. please, go make yourself food. this is not something you do to earn a meal.”

i made and ate breakfast, and now i’m writing.

in place of writing, i’ve been cooking, playing guitar, walking, resting, reading. putting my effort where it matters most - right here, right in front of me, whatever it is i’m doing.

today i start a new job caring for two children, and this week is my birthday, and i moved to a new town, and i’m learning how to take good care of myself. the sun is high and snow might be coming this week. this is good enough for me. talk to you soon?