Champagne for Writer’s Block

In April 2020 my roommate opened our fridge and said, "Do you really only have champagne and eggs in here?" The answer was yes, as I was celebrating the world's end.

I sat down in April 2020 and started writing. Our apartment had a little rickety wooden table that sat two people generously, and I sat there with my laptop and wine at 1PM. I wrote pieces that were clunky, awkward, and sometimes just incoherent. Even at the time I knew they weren't very good. But then I got a "like", and I became addicted to the thrill - I could be the girl who got drunk at noon and cracked eggs, missing the stove entirely, or I could be the girl that people wanted to read more of.

I eventually chose the latter.

Writer's block didn't really hit me during Covid. I turned out dozens of pieces. Looking back, again, they weren't very good. But I wanted to keep trying, to keep getting better.

Nowadays, I hit writer's block frequently. I feel like I've already said everything I have to say. "My trauma" "my self-hatred" blah blah blah blah blah. Nobody wants to hear that anymore. It echos in one ear and comes out the other, readers everywhere scrolling past my sob-story posts. Perhaps, so it goes.

I come back to one instance, and perhaps that inspires me. My ex-boyfriend once called me "the most uninteresting person he knew." That I was "boring" and "had no interests." At the time, I was horribly depressed that he was sleeping with other women, and sank back in my seat, agreeing with everything he was saying.

I don't agree, not anymore.

I don't think writing has made me "interesting" per say, but that moment hit me hard, and I still remember it vividly. When I sit down to write now, I think of his words, and I pour my heart out on the page.

Writer's block be damned. I am interesting dammit. And I have more than champagne and eggs now, I have a plethora of pieces that define me as a writer, person, and human being. I am better for having a voice, and I will continue to share my story.