I Can't Write

Or, a litany of excuses

Hey friend,

I can’t write because at least one of my three children is screaming in the other room. Yelling instructions to be kind from the kitchen doesn’t work, no matter how much I wish it did.

I can’t write because my brain is full of newsletter intros and podcast episode descriptions and podcast episode outlines. I love the podcast but it’s taking all my available brain space.

I can’t write because I’m not reading. My husband staged an intervention so I would go to the library and borrow fiction books. He says all the non-fiction books in my Spotify audiobook cue are boring. He doesn’t understand my passion for self-improvement, but he’s not wrong.

Photo by Nick Morrison on Unsplash

I can’t write because I’m the household administrator and can’t keep being surprised by things like, “Your driver’s license expired a month ago.” It’s my job to pay the bill, sign the swimming lesson consent form, RSVP to the party, and book a GP appointment. Thursday afternoons are now Admin Time™. I set a timer for 25 minutes to go through the paper in-tray, my email inbox, and my to-do list. Admin Time™ makes every cell in my body want to bust out of the chair to go somewhere, anywhere other than here.

I can’t write because I’m bored with everything. I bought a pack of acrylic paint pens. I’ve been hand-lettering a weekly menu to live on my fridge with over the top descriptions of food including, artisanal, freshly baked sourdough focaccia and French Onion Soup with organic beef broth simmered for ten hours and broccoli from our onsite garden. My kitchen is now a little bistro and I’ve dialled up the whimsy in my life.

I can’t write because I’m spending a good portion of my week cooking. If you’re broke but have time, you can still eat delicious food. You just need to give more time to cooking. I spend many happy hours chopping vegetables, making sauces and slices.

I can’t write because I’m not getting outdoors. I’ve spent the last six months prioritising just getting outside—going for walks and even eating my lunch outside. Now it’s winter, I just want to hibernate.

I can’t write because I’m devoting precious brain cells to work out what to wear as a petite pear shape with deep autumn colours. I need a wardrobe that suits my actual life as a 36-year-old stay-at-home mother of three, not a wardrobe for my imaginary life. I can’t keep opening my wardrobe, feeling like I have nothing to wear because everything I own is frumpy. I can’t impulse purchase my way out of this one. I need a better system for styling what I already own.

I can’t write because I’m daydreaming about editing clothes I buy from the op shop, taking up hems, making a dress into a skirt, making a denim top. I have zero sewing skills, no sewing machine, and every prior attempt to sew has only made me angry, but I’m all about impulsively picking up a new hobby.

I can’t write because I need to conduct an investigation into why the toddler is suddenly quiet.

I can’t write because poems have abandoned me. Everything I write seems dumb and terribly obvious, like a bull at a gate. I need metaphor and whimsy and assonance but they’ve gone to visit more talented friends.

I can’t write because the daydream of publishing a poetry collection crossed my mind and now it feels like a Very Big Deal in my head and I’m too scared to write any poems, EVEN THOUGH POETRY IS WHAT I DO FOR FUN and no one has asked me to write a collection 😂

I can’t write because I don’t have a good system for writing poetry. At the moment, I just tap lines into the Google Docs app on my phone whenever I get an idea. I feel like serious writers sit down with Pen and Paper and an Allotted Time to write Capital P Poetry with sonnets and rhymes. Instead what happens is when I get an idea, I stop and type on my phone, standing halfway down my hallway until I realise I am going to be late to get my older two kids from school. Sometimes I have to stop writing so I don’t burn dinner. Surely this can’t be my whole method?

I can’t write because I’m not writing Morning Pages or Evening Pages or really any pages at all. Even though this method has never failed me. I can’t write pages in the morning because it’s hibernation season and when I write them in the evening I fall asleep mid-sentence.

I can’t write because I’m building a house on a farm. We are moving to a country town, my husband’s hometown, and I’m nervous about this new season. My house isn’t built yet and I don’t know when it will be done. But my brain likes to pester me with problems that I can’t do anything about today, like, “Who will I be friends with?” And, “What if I don’t make any friends?”

I can’t write because the only writing I’m doing for myself at the moment is prayer: “I’m scared,” and “help me.”

Anyways, just to update you: I can’t write. I’m not writing. This is not real writing. But I thought you might appreciate a nearly thousand word treatise as to why I can’t write a proper thing right now.

Thanks to Callie R. Feyen for the prompt. Check out Annelise Robert’s take on it here and my original one.