Writing When I Don't Want To

I’ve been stressing and overthinking the words I’m trying to string together. I’m in one of those modes where no matter what I think I decide I want to write about and how, it’s not going to be good enough. I don’t know what the reader will think of the words I put down, but I’ve already decided that they suck and aren’t worth the time of day. It’s exhausting, and I say that as a writer, not a person with bipolar disorder.

Related:

• Describing Depression

• Describing Mania

Early Monday afternoon I posted a message on Facebook, hinting at my predicament. I told anybody listening I might not publish anything today on this site. I used the holiday as an excuse, which is bullshit. In reality, I’m sure I published my note on Facebook in an attempt to psych myself up--a little reverse psychology, if you will--to inspire me to get out of my own head and remember my goal. I want to publish some form of writing three days a week--Monday, Wednesday, Friday--because, I’ve decided, this is my job. This is what I want to do. And like most jobs, somedays, you just don’t want to be there.

I’ve got nothing to report. No words of inspiration. And no advice to give. I’ve been in Maine helping my parents for almost a month. If I’m not watching cable reruns of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, I’m binging fantasy football podcasts, prepping for (hopefully) another season come fall. When I get the chance, I venture into town with Massachusetts plates, park in a lot, and take walks along the ocean or marsh. I feed Teddy, our dog, food he probably doesn’t need or deserve. I can’t help it; I love the attention he gives me. I try to introduce my parents to the world of streaming and app-based grocery delivery, but I can tell they’re overwhelmed.

Life’s slower here. It’s easy to forget there’s a pandemic. Neighborhood kids are out playing ball, street hockey, or riding their bikes, while adults maintain their yards. Life goes on. I don’t know the rules, and frankly, I don’t care. I wear a mask when I go anywhere indoors. Nobody here seems to wear them otherwise. And just like that, I’ve done it: 372 words. I’ve met my self-imposed quota. I’ve written something. I’ve shown up. I’ve done my job. Better days to come.