October 2025

I am struggling to write.

There.

I said it.

Technically, when someone asks me what I’m up to, my answer is that I am keeping tabs on about four book length projects. Because the work for one feeds into the work for the others, every day should feel like forward movement. That is the most optimistic view.

Some days that sunny view is clear. Other days it is cloudy.

I think it best to relay a conversation I had with another writer-friend. I’d give the name but I didn’t ask permission. Anyway, they asked me why I felt stuck and what the cause might be.

I gave a quick debrief for each project – where I was, where I wanted to be, what I had to do to get there. I think it was a lovely, if corporatized rendering of my work. The other writers’ response was, ‘those seem like good places to be.’ Since they have some insight into my personal life, they pointed out all the things that were taking up my time, energy, and psychic space.

Their conclusion: let it be slow, if you can. There is time to push projects forward and there is a time to let them simmer a little. If you hear echoes of Ecclesiastes, you hear echoes of my church-going childhood.

A different writer-friend and I talked about our progress after a co-writing session. I was excitedly telling them about a list I had made – a reading list. This was no ordinary reading list. It represented the promise of an essay. I had the kernel of an topic and, in keeping with Deesha Philyaw and Kiese Laymon’s advice on their podcast, that topic promised several turns inside an essay. My mood shifted. I still wasn’t writing and, given the list, likely will be writing via notes and marginalia first. That shiny promise of a list. It shimmered.

Here's the thing. I identify as a writer. I write. If nothing else, I journal each day, check in with myself using the words as blunt tools, inexact sciences, and sometimes blade-sharp precision to tell myself about how I see the world. I hold myself accountable. I sort through problems. I chasten me. I complain. I brainstorm. I think.

Right now, my struggle to write feels like the by-product of being in parts of the writing process that don’t require writing. I need to read. I need to talk to people. I need to be in somebody’s archive. My writer-friends help me stay present to that, even when it feels arduous, even when all I have is a list.

If you’re stuck, what’s shimmering for you?