Reflection: Wordcount

I've Only Got So Much in Me

My ego is not so inflated that I think folks notice the frequency of my posts and spend time wondering why they’ve waned. The world is on fire and people have more important concerns than the frequency at which a curly-haired writer posts. Still, I have felt my own lack of work echoing.

I normally write a lot. That’s not meant to be boastful, it’s just the reality of how I move through the world. Words are my day job, my hobby and my favorite topic of conversation. That adds up. In my case, it usually equals a prolific writing output.

But I’ve only got so much in me. There has always been an inevitable point where I tire and cannot scrawl a single noun more. It was never a problem before. My word count was a deep well that would quickly replenish.

Then late last year, I felt my bucket coming back up from my creativity stores holding only a few drops. I got nervous. Had I used up my words on a prolific 2024? Was I no better than the California farmers who tap ground water rather than rationing what they have? Unwilling to accept a barren writing landscape, I went looking for answers.

Last year I wrote short stories and reflections here. I wrote poems on Instagram. I wrote short stories for publication in literary magazines and sites. I made and responded to writing prompts each week. I did a lot and loved it. But when I looked back, I wondered if this constant and varied creation is what drained me and kept me from my big literary goal: writing novels.

I felt incredibly proud of what I did last year, but was disappointed that I hadn’t made any progress on novels — neither writing anything new nor editing existing manuscripts. That said, if I added up the words from my short stories, reflections and poems, I had enough for a novel. That’s a staggering thing. Even more so when viewed from my state of creative drought.

As a desperate experiment, I decided to break last year’s writing structures. I already felt daunted by pursing my novels at such a glacial pace. The idea of also keeping up with prompts, poems and stories felt like too much. I gave myself permission to let those self-directed expectations go.

It wasn’t instant; far from it. But the words and ideas did start to trickle in. I’ve posted when poems come to me organically. I haven’t penned a short story worth sharing or submitting this year, but I’m starting to shake the dust off. My novel is slowly taking shape. I’m not where I want to be, but I’m on my way. That’s something.

Why am I telling you? Mostly as way to give myself permission to chase my big-picture goals without the distraction of self-imposed obligation.

I sometimes think that I have to keep posting and sharing in order to be “a real writer”. I don’t. I worry that people won’t read my work if I sporadically share it. They will. I fear that stepping away is the same as giving up. It’s not.

That’s what I want to believe, anyway. I want a creative ecosystem where artists only post when it brings them joy and fulfillment. One in which making art is more valuable that satisfying an algorithm. Maybe that ecosystem is built one creative at a time, breaking up with that obnoxious hustler named Should and reacquainting themselves with the soft creature simply called Because. If that’s the case, then I’ll do my part. I’ll still share here from time to time — I really do love this platform — it just won’t be under the press of expectations or schedules.

So, I’ll be seeing ya Substack. Drop me a line if you miss me. I’m still around; just busy chasing my dreams. Hope you’re out there doing the same.

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