On permission not to write right now.

You do not have to write right now.

1 | ON PERMISSION NOT TO WRITE RIGHT NOW

You do not have to write right now.

You do not have to go mining for meaning, to muscle all the nonsense into making sense. You do not have to sweat over it. You do not have to figure anything out.

You do not have to rip the relevant personal trauma from your insides and offer it on paper. You are allowed to preserve your tenderness until it’s toughened enough to share. Or to never share it. Ever. Some things can be just yours.

You do not have to write right now. You do not have to peel yourself from the couch where you’ve been watching Stranger Things or Love Island for, like, hours, plowing your way to the crumbly bottom of the bag of chips, pickling your fingers in the salt until they’re numb. You’re allowed to need a little numbness when things hurt too big.

You do not have to know what to say. You do not have to prove you’re A Writer. This is not your one chance, your one opportunity. You can write anytime. You can write literally anytime. You do not have to write right now.

You are still a writer, still an artist, still a creative human. Nobody can take that away from you. Not that. Thank god, at least not that. You’re still that person, you still have that special skill. That’s why you can’t manage to make pretty things right now anyway, I bet. Because you’re feeling all the ugly things. You’re taking them in, swirling them around inside, allowing yourself to be changed instead of being a soulless brick. This is a lot, it should feel like a lot, maybe it should be too much to condense just yet.

And the people who are condensing it already? That’s because it is their literal job that they are being paid to do, because…capitalism. If capitalism is not paying you adequately for writing, then definitely do not let capitalism’s ideals — perpetual progress, production at all costs, speed and “efficiency” — distort your understanding of how and why you write.

Your job is just to be here. Be where you are. Look around. Look for the nuance missing from the stories scattered across the internet, the unearthed roots beneath them. Note the unsaid context; complicate the characters; attend to the settings. Notice how your face wrenches when the tone doesn’t match the moment, when the perspective isn’t the important one.

Also, maybe call your friends and see how they’re doing. Read a poem. Pluck bouquets of wildflowers from the edges of the sidewalk. What I mean is, tend to your heart, which is the artist’s most crucial muscle — it is not the brain. It’s the feeling. Read that again. Read that one more time.

You do not have to write right now. You just have to tend to your spirit, however imperfectly, so when it is time to write, when the story tugs at your shirt, you are ready.