When words run dry.

Facing the fear of running out of things to say.

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

I must confess that I have a latent fear that, as a writer, I eventually won’t have anything left to say. The shiver that just went up my spine is likely due to the fact that I just referred to myself as a writer, which I can’t help but say in the baritone pretentiousness of Brian from Family Guy. I know that technically speaking, I am a writer because I’ve written stuff, but alas, as one whose occupation and hobby revolves around the formation and conveyance of words, one of the most common fears is the dreaded phenomenon known as “writer’s block.” If I had to describe this sensation, it’s when a single sentence might occupy an entire day’s worth of mental fortitude to write, and even then, it might still be garbage (it probably is). There’s also all that cliché stuff about the proverbial “blinking cursor of death” that is more or less true.

I’m well aware that writing about how frustrating writing can be is, perhaps, the height of banality. But, as James K. A. Smith recently admitted, “Yes, writing is torture, and it’s all I want to do.” If there wasn’t a keen delight for writing welling up from the deepest parts of me, I likely wouldn’t keep doing it. The slog of writing, as many have concluded before me, is part of the process. The art of writing is finding or discovering the pleasure of putting together words to express truths or emotions in ways that surprise even you. “The absolutely best kind of day writing,” Smith continues, “is the day that you manage to pen a sentence that you never imagined was in you or end up chasing an idea you didn’t have before you sat down at the desk. All of the drudgery and teeth-pulling that characterizes writing is worth it for just these few moments of what almost feels like rapture.”

In that sense, writers are more like grammatical masochists. Those who stick to it have learned to derive an odd joy out of the frustrating and tedious monotony of tapping their fingers on a keyboard. They’ve tapped into a compartment of literary patience, persistence, and bull-headedness that allows them to find delight in what is otherwise viewed as dull. Sometimes, though, the doldrums of writing prove too much, even for the most seasoned verbal navigators. This is when the dreaded menace of “writer’s block” rears its ugly head and stalls whatever joy, however small, issues from seeing words cohere and sing. The ubiquity of this sense of the impossibility of writing has led to a cornucopia of tips and tactics that are supposed to help writers overcome it, from changing scenery to streamlining your routine to reading something off-topic to walking away entirely.

But despite how standard these remedies are, they don’t really address my truest struggle. You see, I’m not worried about a temporary setback, I’m worried about what I’m going to do when I don’t have anything left to say. What if I’ve said all that I wanted to say? What if I’ve already used up all the words that are inside of me? What if, as Brandon Flowers of The Killers croons, “all the songs [have] been written”? What if I only ever have one book published? What then? What does that mean? I worry about a true lack of words. Not merely a dearth of subjects and predicates but a dried-up substance, a message that feels dehydrated. Sometimes, writing doesn’t feel like pulling teeth — it feels brittle. It’s a venture that feels like a delicate balance between true expression and utter exhaustion, bordering on oblivion. Who am I if I’m not writing or posting all the time?

In a way, I think this is partially why I mostly stay within the lane of sharing what others have said, either inspired or not. After all, if I’m at a loss for words, at least I can rely on others to find the words for me. But, truthfully, there is a kind of freedom in knowing that my words don’t ultimately matter. My words, as I have said before, are peanuts, especially compared to God’s. It is his words in me and emerging from me that matter. Jesus said as much to his apostles. “Do not be anxious how you are to speak or what you are to say,” Christ told his followers, “for what you are to say will be given to you in that hour” (Matt. 10:19). It wasn’t grammatical gumption or eloquence that instilled confidence in them — it was the Word and Spirit of the Lord.

As a preacher, I’ve tried to take that to heart. My sense of calling and purpose isn’t tethered to any sort of cauldron of words that I myself conjure up. Rather, my calling and purpose are a gift given to me in God’s word of grace. The same is true in many ways for my aspirations as a writer. Indeed, the cure for my writer’s block is the sweet relief that God’s words can never get old or run dry. They are perennially fresh. They are new every morning. His words of mercy and absolution are as crisp and vibrant as that afternoon in the garden when his word of promise first left his lips. When I feel as though my words are running out or running thin, I am reminded that God’s are everlasting. His words are all I need. His Word is a fathomless well of grace and truth.

Maybe, just maybe, the real threat behind writer’s block is not running out of things to say but forgetting that all the things worth saying have already been said. Not by the Times or your peers or your favorite Substack essayist, but by, in, and through the Word who takes on flesh for us. In the end, I suppose I’ll keep writing, even if it is the same old story. But if my fears are realized and I run out of words — and perhaps, one day, that will happen — I only hope it is because I’ve finally learned to rest in the Word that never ceases to give grace upon grace upon grace.

Grace and peace to you.