Shouting into the Void

Let's cut to the chase: I feel defeated.

I know writing is supposed to be something I do for me. I used to love it—the way words fit together, the way a story could take shape out of nothing. It brought me joy, and I believed in it. I believed I could create something that mattered, whether that meant making someone smile, making them think, or even just making them feel a little less alone.

I went from presenting at conferences and winning short story competitions, to feeling so insignificant. Just a small voice in a flood of so many others.

The reality is that I don't have the time or energy to pump out story after story. I post once a month—a goal that feels reasonable, something to justify my Vocal+ subscription. But when many of my posts go unread, it's hard to see the point.

I could just go back to scribbling thoughts in journals, typing into the notes app, scrawling ideas on scraps of paper that get lost at the bottom of my purse. Would it feel any different?

One of the most recent challenges, Legends Rewritten, was something I was genuinely excited about. Fairy tales are my bread and butter. I took an old story—one that had already won at a writing conference years ago—gutted it, reworked it, and made it even better. I also wrote something brand new. And for all that effort? Twelve reads. One like.

The stats shouldn't matter. But to spend hours, days, even weeks on something to have it fall on deaf ears is disheartening.

I don't want to sound shallow or ungrateful. (Thank you for reading everything I write, Mom. <3) But it's hard not to feel like I'm shouting into the void. I hate that I apparently need validation—that I can't just write for the sake of it. Writing is supposed to be a comfort, an escape. Instead, I start doubting myself.

If I can't see any success with the perfect prompt, why do I continue?

I guess the truth is that I'm just tired. I'm burnt out.

I hate my job, but I can't find anything new.

Things that used to bring me joy, just don't anymore.

The current state of our country fills me with nothing but fear and anger.

And yet, the world keeps spinning. No one else stops for my train wreck. The work has to continue. Bills still need to be paid. People die every day.

How am I supposed to write when human rights are being stripped away with each passing day? How can I focus on anything when my job demands so much of my energy? How do I make time to write when I can barely find time in the day to work out, clean, take care of my dog, and keep myself fed? How do I talk about anything positive after losing a family member?

I may be burnt the fuck out. I may be so exhausted I want to sleep for a week. I may be weighed down by grief at the moment (which is definitely affecting the doom and gloom of my writing right now).

But I set a goal. So here's me doing what I promised myself. I guess you'll just have to suffer with me.

And who knows? Maybe someone out there relates. Maybe someone will realize they aren't alone.

I don't have an uplifting ending to this. Maybe this is a season of doubt that will pass. Maybe I need to rethink why I write at all. Or maybe—despite the frustration—there's still something in me that refuses to stop.