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“If I can’t write, then who am I? Is all I’ll ever be an artist with no medium to pour my scars into?” — Untitled Henry Hayes Manuscript

Being a writer who can’t write is arguably the worst career move of all time.

What does it mean when the words just stop flowing? Does that mean it’s over? Will I ever be able to string more than three mediocre words together on a blank page? Will any of the words I attempt to write even make sense?

Anything I type immediately gets deleted, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get anything worth a damn down.

I wish I could do something other than be delusional for a living, but it’s what I love.

I chose to sit down one day and write the book for a reason.

That’s the one thing I’ve always believed about life: everything happens for a reason.

Those five words have been my motto since I was young.

My father always said it to me, and after his accident that almost took him from us, he reminded us of it every single day.

He’s fine now, but when I was young, it terrified me thinking my dad was going to die and I wouldn't get a chance to say goodbye.

I like to think writing makes me feel better, but in reality, I think it makes me feel worse.

Because sometimes, I don’t want to look on the bright side of things.

Sometimes, I want to complain, cry, scream, and rage like everyone else.

I’ve only ever done that once in my life, and that’s not a memory I want to revisit.

But that isn’t who I am anymore. I’m more of a suffering in silence type of guy, which is why I have no friends—according to my younger sister and only friend, Mitch. I’m twenty-five years old, and my best friend is someone I met through work. He is quite literally all I have besides my family.

As I stare at the email from my publisher, reading every word over again, I start to question if I can even write in the first place.

How is it that they’re this excited to see the pages I haven't written yet? I know I’m a little behind, but I swear, every time I open my email, I have something else from them reminding me how excited they are for my draft to be submitted.

I’m well aware first drafts are supposed to suck, but out of the thirty chapters I have outlined, none of them are complete. I don’t even think I could call them chapters, just scarcely written words on random pages floating throughout my manuscript.

I don’t know why I can’t get words down on the page. This has never happened to me before, and you’d think with all the success I had with my first two books, the third would flow out of me .

That’s not the case, though. Book three has been the biggest climb yet, and I’ve barely started up this mountain. Something is keeping my legs from moving.

I reread the email for the twentieth time before my phone rings, and I pick it up, welcoming the distraction when I see Mitch’s name flash across the screen.

“Hello?”

“Are you out of breath? Why are you out of breath? Is everything okay?” he says across the line. I guess I’d call him my best friend, even if he is my only friend. We try to talk every day, even if it’s for a short conversation.

One time, I missed his call by like two minutes, and he freaked out on me.

Mitch is almost too nice of a guy. He’s always worried about something, whether it be his deadline, his sales, his friends, his family.

He’s probably worried every second of every day, and I don’t know how he manages to get anything done.

All I do is worry about getting this manuscript done, and it hasn't helped me push it along.

“I’m fine, dude. Just rereading the email from Literary Nook,” I tell him. Mitch knows everything about me, including the stuff I don’t mention; he knows it all. He knows about my writing issues, about how I feel when I wake up every morning, and he even knows about her.

The girl who shredded my heart and gave me no reason as to why.

I was able to turn that heartbreak into a novel that sold well and made lists I used to dream about.

Then, my second novel somehow surpassed the first one, and more and more opportunities started to knock on my door.

It was great. My life was seemingly perfect to the people around me.

I was no longer a child who dreamed about being an author.

I was officially published with one of the best publishing houses in the country.

I’ve never been more miserable.

“Hen, you have to stop looking at that. It’s going to drive you crazy.”

“It already is driving me crazy,” I remind him, thinking back to our conversation yesterday, when one random question made me spiral. If I can’t get words down, then it’s looking next to impossible to have this be my career until I die.

“Yeah, so stop looking at it,” he says as I hear him typing across the line. “How is your word count today, or are we not mentioning that again?”

As I highlight the small paragraph I wrote and see the number come up, all I can do is palm my forehead and slump against my desk.

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah, it is,” I sigh heavily. “I’m at about three hundred words for today, and I don’t even know if I like them all.”

“Well, that’s three hundred more than yesterday,” he says, trying to lift my spirits. “If it makes you feel better, I only wrote five hundred words yesterday.”

Huh, that actually does make me feel better. “For which project?”

He only laughs. Mitch is the type of guy to have more than one story in his brain, and even though I’m also like that, he tends to act on it.

Whereas I usually stick to one manuscript at a time, he’s always jumping between documents, as if it was a game of leapfrog.

I admire him a lot, though. I don’t know how he keeps it all sorted.

He did show me his spreadsheet one time, but I can’t imagine how confusing it still gets.

“For the one I’m on an actual deadline for. The other two are just passion projects for right now. I don’t know if I’ll even end up pitching them to my agent.”

“Well, if you ever need an extra set of eyes, I’m always here.”

“Thanks, man,” he says, and I hear another question coming in his pause.

“Have you given any thought to the messages you received a few weeks ago? Maybe that has something to do with you not being able to write. I know I hate when I have to decide something. It always weighs my body down until I figure out what to do. ”

I know he’s trying to help, but I’ve been trying to get that off my mind. I’m pretty sure I’m going to decline the invitation sitting in that group chat.

I hate to admit he’s probably right. The invite has been looming over my head like a dark cloud for weeks, and I still haven't made a decision. It definitely hasn't helped my writer's block, but this aversion to writing has been going on since I got home from my last book tour.

I don’t know what happened. The tour was great. I met readers from all over the country and got to chat with some other amazing authors I look up to. While I was catching flights and traveling, I was fine.

Then, I got home, and it all crashed on top of me. I realized I had nobody to come with me on these things, nobody to look out into the crowd to be able to celebrate my wins with. It punched me in the face—the fact that I’ve spent all this time alone and am just now realizing it.

I don't mind being alone. It just made my stomach drop when guilt overtook my body. I had so much to be thankful for. Here I am, living out my dream, but at the same time, I also want something more.

How greedy and unworthy I am to feel the way I do—but I can’t help it. Some people would kill to be following their dreams like I am, and here I am, complaining about it.

“I don’t know what to do, Mitch. I still have some time, but I can’t think about…” I trail off, unsure of what to say. “I just can’t.”

“Well, if you ever want to talk it out, I’ll be here. I know how tough it is since she’ll probably—”

“Exactly. That’s why I haven't even entertained the idea of going.”

He clears his throat from across the line. “Just think about it.”

“I will,” I tell him, even though I might be lying.

“I have a meeting to get to, but I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Sounds good. Have fun and get those words in,” I say .

He smiles back at me. “Get those words in. You can do this. Don’t think, just write, okay?”

“I’ll try,” I say as I hang up the phone.

I stare at my computer for five more minutes, trying to figure out how to reply to the email. I can’t seem to write that either, so I turn my computer off, take a deep breath, and head to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

Tea has always been my go-to beverage to try and help the brain fog clear. I know this one cup isn't going to magically fix all my problems, but maybe it will get something going.

Maybe, maybe, maybe .

Deep down, I know the words are unlikely to come. If I can’t even write a simple email, then how can I expect myself to write a whole novel again?