the drowning writer
writer's block, but the opposite
Some people talk about writer’s block like it’s a lack of ideas.
Like you’re sitting in front of a blank page, and the world has gone quiet.
But that’s not what I feel.
I feel everything.
I feel too much.
The stories are loud in me.
The sentences come in half-formed poems, in sudden dialogue between people who don’t exist yet.
Narratives swirl in my chest—fragments of childhood memories, dreams I had last night, things I overheard on the bus.
There are essays in my spine, novels in my teeth, monologues in my hands.
There is so much I want to say, I don’t know where to begin.
I sit down to write, and my fingers pause.
Not because there’s nothing.
But because there’s too much.
Too many ideas begging for my attention.
Too many characters whispering their names.
Too many truths, I haven’t figured out how to hold without unravelling.
I am not empty.
I am overflowing.
And somehow, that still feels like failure.
I open a document and stare.
I try to choose a starting point, but everything in me pulls in a different direction.
Should I write about grief? About softness? About home?
Should I finish that draft, or start the new thing?
Is this a poem? A letter? A novel? A scream?
I feel like a thousand books trying to live in one body.
I am flooded with voices and textures and titles I haven’t even written down yet.
And it paralyzes me.
Because I know I can’t write it all—not today, not all at once.
And part of me is terrified that choosing one means abandoning the rest.
But I’m learning—slowly, painfully—that writing isn’t about holding everything.
It’s about trusting that the words will wait for you.
That what’s meant to be written now will rise above the noise.
I’m learning that writing isn’t just about inspiration.
It’s about discipline. Discernment.
It’s about listening through the overwhelm and picking one thread to follow through the dark.
Because yes, I want to write everything.
But I can only write one thing at a time.
One truth.
One breath.
One sentence.
So today, I’ll begin where I am.
Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s small.
Even if it’s just one page in the middle of a thousand unwritten books.
Because silence doesn’t always mean absence.
And the blank page isn’t empty.
It’s just waiting for me to choose where to start