I Have a Million Things to Say but Nothing to Write About

Is following your passion supposed to be this hard?

When my mind is calm, I often find myself entering a secret forest that lies within it. It is a land of hope, dreams, and ideas, where I search for inspiration.

I find myself walking barefoot in a field, my ideas fluttering around like fireflies, and I stare at them in awe. Each one is unique, beautiful, and has a mind of its own. They fly around without a care in the world. I wonder how it would be like to be so free, without restraint, not to have the burden of worry weighing one down.

I wish to trap one of them and test whether it works. I look for an idea that has more to it that I can write about that will come to fruition if I give it the necessary time and effort. But, alas, I can’t seem to catch any.

Suddenly, I spot a bright one, which is quite close to me. I sneak up on it and cup my hands tightly around it. I cautiously open my palms to see the size and potency of the idea that I have caught, but there’s nothing there. There’s no trace of fairy dust either; It’s empty. I feel empty.

I decide to spend more time in the forest. I hope that one of the tiny bugs will naturally drift towards me, as has happened on rare occasions before. A firefly that shines brighter than the others will fly towards me and sit atop my outstretched arm. It will whisper into my years, “take me, I am your next bright idea, and you can turn me into your next article.”

The lightning bugs grow in number as the sky darkens. Their glimmer increases, and so does my hope. I can smell the damp earth beneath my feet, feel the fresh dewdrops on the grass, and see magical colors reflect in them — the sights of twilight warm my soul. I hear the little bugs’ excited flutter, and I revel in the beauty around me.

I look around at this tiny slice of paradise and feel a tinge of excitement; maybe better days are here. Perhaps, the right idea is just around the corner.

But something’s been amiss for the last few weeks. Days of calm are few, and I am a loss for what to do with them when they come. I keep walking, hoping to reach a destination, any destination, but I can’t escape the maze. I can’t find the idea that will unlock it.

Most of my days are cloudy, and some come bearing mighty thunderstorms. On such days, there are no fireflies as far as the eye can see, just crickets. I can’t walk on the ground as it is muddy, and my feet keep sinking in it. When I muster more strength and try to lift a leg, I slip and fall.

I get cold and wet in the rain. Gloom surrounds me, and the colors of sunset, the brilliant hues of pink and orange that always bring me a sense of joy are missing. The dark does not feel familiar; it seems eerie and menacing. The wind howls fiercely, and I can sense that it does not want me there. Eventually, I give up, thinking to myself that today is not my day.

But, fortunately, today is not a rainy day. Today, the sun shone brightly on me. The evening brought the colors of magic, the breeze of calm, and the glimmer of hope. And yet I am unable to find the right idea. They continually buzz around me, but none come to me.

After some time, my hope starts to feel like a false promise, I get tired of walking around in circles, and I don’t know where to go from here. What am I going to write about today?

I have a million things to say but nothing to write about.

I wake myself up from my trance-like state and jolt myself back to reality. It’s been a week now; I have to write today. I must.

I sit in front of my laptop, open my Notes app, and look at the thirty-something ideas sitting there. Captured fireflies in glass jars were waiting to fly again, waiting to soar into the world. But none of them seem good enough. I realize that I am not ready for some of them, and release them, bidding a tearful goodbye.

My list is now down to twenty-two, but the process of elimination did not help. I am not close to finding the right one.

I think to myself, what’s the point of all this?

I will carefully pick an idea, spend hours thinking about it, nurturing it, and then translating it into words. I am going to pour my heart out on this Google Doc. I will edit it three times, go through the mildly infuriating grammar check, format the piece to perfection, and publish it.

But for what? Is anyone listening?

I can’t believe that all this time and effort will produce a piece that no one may read. If I am lucky, then someone may skim through it, if and when they have a few seconds.

I am actually supposed to use sub-headings, breaks, bold/italics formatting, write shorter sentences and paragraphs, and pull quotes for that express purpose. So that a person reading this does not get bored, their attention does not wander, and somehow manages to reach the end of the page.

Is it worth it?

Maybe it’s me. Perhaps my worst fears that come knocking ever so often are true. I am a bad writer. My words are lackluster, and when strung together, form lengthy monotonous sentences that offer no takeaway. Maybe my writing makes no sense to anyone — anyone but me.

I am not a gifted writer. Words don’t flow out of my mind the moment my fingers hit the keyboard. Writing for me is a systematic and laborious process. I have outlined a process, created necessary guidelines, and divided my work into twelve tasks and twenty sub-tasks.

As I can’t trust my judgment, I rely on this rigid system. Following it helps me accomplish my goal of publishing an article. It’s taxing for me. I cannot write every day and also cannot wrap up an essay in sixty minutes. My shortest timeline is one day, i.e., 8 hours.

When I started writing, it took me fifteen days to perfect a piece, so that’s something at least. I have published sixteen articles until now, over seven months. It’s a tiny number compared to the generally accepted standard, but I remind myself that it’s a significant number for me. Zero to Sixteen has been a feat.

Days without inspiration make me feel numb. I fear that I have nothing to write about anymore. But, I have a million things to say. I don’t know if this is writer’s block, I think not. It feels more personal, intimate to me; I would like to call it a mental block.

I would describe it as a tall metal gate with spikes on top, that goes on and on for as far as I can see. It’s standing between me and my dreams, and I don’t know any way through, I can’t get around it either.

I am a writer, and I am supposed to work through the pain, channel it into my art, isn’t that what all the greats did? But I can’t.

I have started writing humor recently because I am beginning to find my situation tragically funny. I don’t understand it; it’s incredibly painful, but writing snarky bits helps me channel my anger, and getting through life becomes a tiny bit easier.

I believe that if my pain does not inspire me, at least I can laugh at it and possibly get a few articles out of the numerous jokes that come to mind. I could not catch any fireflies, but I did find some gnats. I am going to turn these ideas on and write about them.

How long is this streak going to last? I don’t know. I remain suspended in this deadly war between my passion and pain.

After several days of rain, when I finally see the light, I jump at it. I try to make hay as the sun shines. I write and publish something swiftly, anything, any idea that will do; it just needs to get me to the finish line.

I wait for a sense of accomplishment to creep in. I hope for a renewal of faith in myself. I eagerly wait for warmer days to follow.

I remind myself repeatedly, “one down, three more to go, you can do it, you can write.” More importantly, you can write something that can be published. You can finish an idea, bring it to its completion.

But the feeling does not take. Nothing lasts.

I am exhausted again. My body is lying down in a still form, and my bones ache from the day’s toil. I wanted to end the day with a tiny ray of light, but that doesn’t seem to be coming my way. I don’t feel better. I don’t believe in myself any more than before. “So what if I wrote one article? It does not mean that I will write again.”

I go to sleep feeling incomplete, assuring myself that I will try again tomorrow. I will venture out into the forest of ideas again. And I do.

As I wander further into the field, the pangs of doubt grow stronger. The grass below my feet is no longer smooth or moist; it’s deeper, thicker, sharp, and unruly. It’s edges scratch against my knees. There are stones beneath my feet, which I can’t see, but I can feel them alright.

Yet, I keep walking; I keep waiting for the magical firefly.

If one of them comes near me, I look at it intently. I try to find substance. Is this idea worth sharing? Has it been written a thousand times already by better writers than me? Will anyone care to read my generic and completely non-unique point of view? Probably not.

I move away from it and let it fly. Maybe it’s better off away from me.

The night falls rapidly, and the sky turns into the darkest shade of blue. The brilliant shades of red and purple disappear into the horizon. The moon hasn’t risen yet, and only a few stars are visible as wispy clouds scatter across the sky.

I lower my gaze and look at the magnificence around me that is outside my reach. I stand there amazed, with little glowworms flying nearby and don’t think of anything else for a few moments. I enjoy the stillness and calm.

Then I ask myself, is there any point in staying here any longer? I don’t think I am going to catch an idea. My feet are bleeding, my mind is weary, and I can’t walk anymore. I can’t search anymore.

I gather my empty glass jar and brace myself for the journey back into reality. How am I going to face myself? How can I not come up with a good idea yet again? Am I ever going to write again?

I have a million things to say but nothing to write about.

Although I couldn’t catch an idea, I did reflect on everything that I experienced during my walk. I sat down to compose my thoughts and remind myself of my purpose.

At the end of the tête-à-tête with myself, I realized yet again that writing is my one true passion, the one I am willing to suffer for, the path that I will tread no matter how hard. It’s the only thing I want to do in my life.

I have spent years not believing in myself, not taking chances, and not doing what I truly wanted to do. This forms the biggest regret of life — not following my true passion earlier. It took me years to realize that I needed to do what I would do if no one was watching.

It was my dream for an alternate life, one where I would not care about money, success, fame, gaining approval from my parents, and becoming significantly better than my peers.

If no one was watching, I would write. I would take many walks in the secret forest, absorb every little speck of magic around me and write. I would write to heal my soul. I would write to share my story.

When I completed the journey that led to this life-changing realization, I couldn’t hold on to my older career choice or other half-baked passions. I had to take a leap of faith.

I remind myself that doubt and pain have always been in my life, and writing cannot undo years of damage in one day, one month or even a year. In the ever so wise words of Taylor Swift, “Band-Aids don’t fix bullet holes.”

It has been a little over a year since I wrote my first article, and I remember the experience vividly. Each word, all three thousand three hundred and twenty-seven of them came from deep within my heart. Together they sounded like the most pleasant harmony that I have ever heard.

I didn’t write it because anyone had asked me to, or because I wished for something else to come out of it, I wrote it, purely for my pleasure. This seven-page document was immensely cathartic, had the power to heal me, and marked the birth of my new career — The one I was pursuing, just for myself.

It took me six months to publish it, and now I am mighty proud of it. That’s the only way I can feel lastingly good about my work, in retrospect. Well, I will take what I can get. Nothing can deter me from following my passion anymore.

I will work despite the dense walls of doubt and exhaustion. I will tear down the tall gate, chipping at it whenever I can. I will get through the rainy days however I can. I will never lose hope of the sun. I know it will rise again.

I know I am supposed to write for the reader and give them what they want, but I can’t. Not yet, at least. It’s not that I don’t care about you, I most sincerely do, I just can’t alter my writing to fit your specifications.

I have spent twenty-eight years of my existence not fully living for myself, trying to please others, and diminishing the flame that burned inside me. I had never accepted the golden cage society built for me, but instead had created a little nest, not too far away from it.

I falsely believed that I was listening to my heart and dancing to my own tune, but I was in a prison of my own making in reality. I hadn’t taken flight yet, and I was scared to move far away.

Now that I have finally soared far far away, I cannot turn back again. I cannot do anything for anyone else. I need to write for myself. And I will.

I will write even if no one’s listening. I will write even when I don’t have an idea. I will create magic from thin air if I have to. I will write even if no one is reading until the end. I will keep walking, trying to catch the fireflies as they come, and I will keep enduring the pain.

I will write even when I have nothing to write about.