This year has been the year of severe writer’s block. No matter how many hours I spent at my computer trying to write, nothing felt right. After a few too many frustrating hours of wall and keyboard staring, I decided to throw in the towel and deem this year the year of building my life, not writing about it.
Every time I felt some kind of swell in my chest — the kind that usually signals the need to put words on paper — I’d end up writing a variety of paragraphs that ended up in a 50-page google doc that quickly became an appendix of abandoned words.
Because I love to indulge myself in writing about my own journey, the longer I didn’t write, the harder it felt to tell the story necessary to provide meaning to the things I felt called to share. Between a breakup, a road trip that evolved into a move to Mexico and a major career pivot, most of the riffing I wanted to do felt incoherent without context.
So, the game continued. Life barreled forward at what felt like an ungodly pace, and every time I was inspired to write about something, I’d be plagued by the complexity of explaining things like how Mario Perniola’s view on nudity impacted how I viewed a particular relationship while hanging with a bunch of nudists in the desert, because explaining how I got there was a story in and of itself.
