As the kids on Twitter say, “I don’t know who needs to hear this, but…”
Very briefly, I want to offer a brief moment of solidarity and reflection for fellow writers. There are particular seasons of my life where my work feels just absolutely pointless. There’s not even a logic to this feeling or a particular thing that triggers it. For years now it has just come and gone, come and gone; sometimes it’s a vague sensation that can be banished by turning on the radio. Other times, it’s been a paralyzing emotion that choked out my thinking and drove me to a dark place. In the taxonomy of grief, it’s a pretty small, insignificant thing. But it’s real, and the longer I encounter it, the more I’ve realized that I’ve got to make a category for it.