Damn you, writer's block!

May 21, 2026

Recently, I’ve been wondering why I find it hard to write consistently, and after about 2 whole months, I finally diagnosed it as writer’s block, but I had a HUGE problem with it.

This thing called writer's block makes absolutely ZERO sense to me, and for the sake of my sanity and my belief in my ability, I have decided to believe that it’s a myth.

There’s no way this same heart, brain, or wherever the words come from, which always has a million and one things to say, suddenly has nothing to say. I really don’t get how I could be sitting with my journal or sitting in front of my laptop, and even the crickets decide that the lack of action/inspiration is not worth their chirps. It really doesn’t make sense to me.

And so in a bid to PROPERLY diagnose what’s been going on with me, I decided to take a further, deeper look at what goes on in my creative process, or what’s just been going on with me generally, and here’s what I deduced.

I’ve literally been on autopilot

This was the first realization I came to. For the past couple of months, I’ve been on autopilot. And no, I’m not saying I’ve been diligently following some life-altering daily structure; it’s like I’ve been existing without living. Moving from one task to the other, doing things simply because I have to. It’s as if I handed control of myself to a total stranger and watched life happen without actually being involved.
Sure, there have been moments where I’m fully present, but that’s all they’ve been: moments.

Now, the problem with this is, remember when I said I had writer’s block? It actually felt like I don’t know… life block, existential block😭 It just felt way bigger than what I had diagnosed it as. So, it’s not like there was nothing to write about; it’s not like there was no inspiration either. There was just … nothing.

I have a burning desire for a very charming and yet very elusive woman. Her name? Perfection.

First, I know the heading is quite over the top, leave me alone.😭 On a more serious note, I finally realized that I have a very strong desire for whatever I create to be created to perfection, or at least my idea of it.

Perfectionism itself is funny because it disguises itself as high standards but is usually just fear wearing a tuxedo. Or in this case, a little black dress.

In my case, it’s the fear of being perceived as average. As just another person who writes. Or worse, as someone trying too hard to sound profound.
It’s made me continually try to create something worthy of being remembered instead of simply creating something true.

I haven’t fully accepted my “why”

Like many others, I joined Substack because I was encouraged to by someone dear who believed in me and who is admittedly the subject of a couple of my letters. So it’s not like I joined with a “let’s hit the ground running” mindset; I joined casually and because I wanted to impress her.

However, that all changed for me. It stopped being a casual hobby, or something I was good at, and became something I deeply cared about, something I was made to do. I see other people’s work and my eyes widen and my heart skips because I can very clearly see myself doing something similar and doing it just as well.

Also, I’m NOT going to pretend like I don’t want to grow to be as creative as Bisola Badejo or to have a recognizable voice like gor. I actually want that because for me, writing has now become very purposeful, and I think my refusal to digest that fact has contributed to my inconsistency.

I may have gotten here by chance, but I’m here for a reason, and so I must act like it!

In any case, these three observations have been life-changing because at least I now know the colors of my problems.

Hopefully, I get better from here, but with all the built-up frustration this season caused me, I’ll round up this article with a very passionate statement:

”Damn you, writer’s block!”
(join me if you wish)