I remember when I could call myself a writer. I remember when all these words used to come to me so easily—I’d be walking down the street and an idea would pop in my head and I’d be able to write down the whole thing in an hour. I remember when the jokes used to fall out of me as I turned my pain into something that also held delight.
I remember when the stories I wanted to tell felt important. And then, if not important, interesting at least.
It’s been hard to feel that way since Covid. My stories are so small in terms of the voices we should be listening to right now. It’s hard to write humorously about everything I’ve experienced, even the absurdity of it all, in the face of…. *gestures broadly*
I was texting with some friends today, and one of them shared that in a training, a presenter had said, “there are four trauma responses: fight, flight, fear, and flow.”
I mean. The fourth trauma response is fawn. I should know, I’m excellent at it. If I feel threatened I will fawn my way to safety until after and none of it will have been a conscious choice.
But can you imagine if “flow” was a trauma response? I would have written so many books by now.
But what’s weird is…I was writing more when I was in my ongoing, unrelenting personal trauma— I was turning out terrible lesbian pirate poetry when I was 16 and I was a year into my dad’s 12 year reign of emotional terrorism. Writing my silly little grief jokes, or anxiety jokes, or depression jokes—that was my survival skill. Writing is what saved my life. Oh, Dad is suing me for $100,000,000? This is hilarious, I can’t wait to write about it. Okay, maybe flow is a trauma response, lol.
But I’ve healed a lot of those wounds now, and the pain in the world feels so much more important a thing to focus on. I don’t have the same desire to write. I don’t feel called to it the way I used to.
I miss it, like a friendship that you outgrew. Or the music you used to listen to as a teenager. Or a favorite piece of clothing that finally falls apart. I think about the person that I was when I could write like that, and I miss that sass, that bite. They feel like a stranger.
I would love to get to know them again, but I don’t know how.
Highest Form of Whit 
It is not easy to be young again.
Ain’t that the truth
I’ve struggled with writer’s block too for the past 5 years. What helped me get out of it was reading George Orwell’s essay Why I Write.
We live in turbulent times, where the loudest voices are distorting the narratives and the histories of those that are more vulnerable than them. As writers, we have a duty, I think, to not contribute to the noise. But in these times where the loudest voices shout convictions and certainty… I also think we, as writers, have a duty to model what it means to move through this world with curiosity, discovery and vulnerability. To find our political purpose and historical impulse, as Orwell suggests.
Good luck!