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Andrew Chase 8/15/26 Andrew Chase 8/15/26

Writer’s block [live]

Twenty minutes. Six meandering paragraphs. Still no topic. A live look at what it's like to argue with your inner self (and lose).

“I think, I think, I think…

I think I may never know a thing.”

Had a thought, just before this, about quitting the newsletter. Just for now, of course. The usual order. Take a break and rethink the approach, you know, until I just come back to the same conclusion: that I need to keep writing. That I want to. That the readers and I owe it to each other to keep this line open. So writing it is.

Oh but what about?

I’ve been critiquing myself a lot as of late. Every idea, every sentence, every action or lack thereof. Being so harsh, knowing all-too-well the childish game I’m playing with the inner, past self I’ve come to know as Garrett. This fucking guy. The final boss of writer’s block.

Nothing seems interesting between him and me these days. The dopamine once found in trying to connect with him is laced with bad speed and baking powder. The lows are lower. The highs are lower. The topics are dry and come across in glances. And the external input… Oh. My. The input…

Forget about the digital town hall hostage negotiations on X and the online Doomsday Clock that is TikTok. Forget about the small talk at work, and any shop talk for that matter. Forget about the stale and surface-level get-togethers and cold catch-ups with old friends turned a tad more sour. Just forget ‘em.

We’ve ALL strayed so far from the notion of meaningful conversation that I can’t even talk to my own damn self anymore. Garrett? Are you even listening?! *Shakes head in disappointment | *Shakes head violently to wake the grumpy bastard up

You ever get pissed off, then pissed off again for letting yourself get pissed off? It’s like a piss-off-off. Pisseption, if you will.

Spending 20 minutes writing six meandering paragraphs’ worth of nonsense, still with not even a topic to show for it. I’m kinda pissed… Dammit.

I mean, never mind writing - what is there even to think about? I suppose about this writing pursuit, about how I can make this newsletter a better experience for the readers I do have, or about how to get more readers, or about the dusty long-form drafts sitting on the shelf in need of editing. Funny - I’ve been writing about death for the past five years, and all that’s come of it is an ironic metaphor for the story of another writer who gave up too soon. Memento Mori.

So much work and thought put into this, so many words written down, so many areas of life explored and somehow I’m back stuck, self-centered and talking about myself… to myself… again. See what I mean? My own worst critic doesn’t even begin to describe it, but describing it would result in being a worse critic, so…

What to write about.

Definitely not about me. Ugh.

Aliens?! Nah.

I wrote a piece about the Voyager crafts nine years ago, I could update that. Meh.

Remember that philosophical take on exercise… ‘Water and Electricity’, was it? Could be a valuable gated piece. Eh, I dunno. ← That phrase will be on my gravestone.

Well, I haven’t had writer’s block in a while. Mostly because I haven’t been writing, or having meaningful conversations, or even thinking all that much. If I shift my lazy ass just a bit to the left, this could be considered a positive trend.

Wait… Oh, well. That’s interesting. That… could work, you know, to keep the line open. Hm.

Well, enough for now. I need a walk and a meaningful conversation. Garrett? You there? Eh, forget him.

Love to all,

Drew

P.S. Anything you want to talk about, or are you having writer’s block too?

Related Poetry

Writer’s Block, Live

From ***Air & Water: A ThoughPose Poetry Collection* *| 5/9/2018***

I’ve broken into my own scribbled-in, endless
Self-given prison
Sentences unwritten,
Ridden with fenced-in, pensive pen strokes
Blending into this submissive
Cloak of ink-bled indecision
It is
It isn’t

Use them or lose them

From ***Air & Water: A ThoughPose Poetry Collection* *| 4/10/2018***

These rotten, unspoken things
Once near were, now not
Never heard, often thought
Lest forgotten
Puddles smudged between
Salvaged, softened tree lines
Archived like unwanted dust
Atop a wavering, misplaced shelf

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