When the Writing Stops

I’m creatively empty — and I’m now at peace with that

There was a time, in 2014, when a full-time writing career seemed possible. My pieces were garnering tens of thousands of views, established writers and quasi-famous people were reaching out with kind words about something I had written, I was being interviewed as a talking head, and I was taking meetings with outlets about joining their teams. I had other very cool opportunities. The money just wasn’t there, and once I learned the economics of writing online I doubted it would ever be there, but I still had dreams…

It wasn’t a pipe dream and it wasn’t necessarily an attainable goal. It hovered somewhere between the two.

Then, something happened.

The attention economy changed. The internet changed. The way people consume content changed, especially the way they read (they don’t; they watch videos). The algorithm changed. My readership changed. I changed too — I moved away from my primary niche (hip-hop) and even my secondary niche (NBA) to write about other topics. This made me happier creatively, but almost certainly less successful.

I never did it to make money (thankfully), but I did try multiple times to turn it into a side hustle instead of the side leisurely stroll it had always been.

When I dedicated myself, I went all in. I posted something new nearly every day. I amassed thousands of followers, but that number plateaued years ago. I had a newsletter for years that never had more than 50 subscribers. I tried different platforms and approaches. I tried several different Instagram content accounts that went nowhere. I tried freelancing. Nothing really worked.

I can name several people off the top of my head that became known and built lucrative careers based on their online output that, if I’m being honest, I don’t think was any better than my own.

That happens. It used to really bother me. Not anymore. Now, it’s just a vague sense of disappointment, because I realize it was probably never meant to be.

---

I used to think that it was a problem of time.

Between an advancing career and raising two children in a 50/50 household where we both work and both do child and household duties, there wasn’t much free time left over.

Despite this, I was so prolific even within those time constraints, so I figured that if I had more time, I’d be unstoppable.

I was wrong. I now have more time, but far less desire to write. It’s almost like they’re inversely proportional.

It’s not a lack of ideas. It’s not writer’s block. It’s more like writer’s don’t want to.

I just don’t feel like it.

I have a killer hook for another novel. I’ve completed most of the outline, but every time I sit down to work on it, I just don’t want to. I have ideas for several other books, including a smartass treatise on grammar in an online world. I have ideas for essays too. I open my Medium drafts and see titles for pieces, but that’s where they’ve remained. I don’t have the desire to pound on the keys the way I used to.

I…just…don’t…feel…like…it.

We all have days and moments when we don’t feel like doing our jobs, but when you don’t want to do your hobby — your passion, even — that’s the reddest of red flags. If there’s no enjoyment and no (real) money, what’s the point?

Maybe I’m just empty. There were very specific things I wanted to explore —defending Michael Jordan’s tenure with the Wizards; growing up as a hip-hop superfan in the suburbs in the ’90s; lessons learned from dropping out of grad school; Tim Burton’s Batman films aged horribly; the modern era of fatherhood; what we’ve lost in the streaming era; so many others— and I did them. I’ve written dozens of things recently, but they all felt like a slog.

Even this piece took forever to complete, ironically. I’ve been thinking about it for months, but when it came time to actually do it, I couldn’t make it happen.

I think I’m done.

Perhaps I’ve said everything I ever wanted to say. Or perhaps I’m just in a better place in life. I’m happy in both my career and my life. I’m in the best shape of my adult life. I no longer have the angst or nervous energy or need to impress that drove me for so long. I’m not perfect and my life isn’t either, but it’s very good. Maybe that’s why. I honestly don’t know.

Still, I’ll leave the door cracked. I’m keeping my site up (for now) and I’ll continue cashing those two figure Medium checks. I reserve the right to bang out a screed if the spirit moves me, but I’ll no longer feel like I have to publish something every week. Maybe I will, but I most likely will not.

It’s a relief.

---

So, if this is the time to take a moment and exhale, like Thanos at the end of Infinity War, to reflect on it all, what do I see?

• Nine published books with my name on the spine. While some are better than others (and a few are very good), I’m honestly proud of all of them.
• Thousands of online pieces, posted on XXL and Cuepoint, Business Insider and Fatherly, and shared extensively on Twitter and Reddit. I honestly believe some are as good as nearly anything else online.
• Minor successes — reaching #2 on the Amazon bestsellers list; one piece now has over 633,000 views; nearly 16,000 Medium followers; my own website has had over a half-million hits in its eight years of existence; being interviewed as a so-called “expert” and getting words of praise and encouragement from people whose work I’ve long admired.

All of that is something.

Most of all, I loved it. It was like an enjoyable compulsion. It wasn’t that I wanted to write, it was that I couldn’t not write. There’s an oft-repeated version of a quote that basically goes, “Painters love to paint; writers love to have written.”

That wasn’t true for me. I always loved to write. Until now. Now, I love to have written.

Past tense.

---

Christopher Pierznik is the worst-selling author of nine books. His work has appeared on XXL, Cuepoint, Business Insider, The Cauldron, Fatherly, Hip Hop Golden Age, and many more.