I’m Dying Here

“I learned to produce whether I wanted to or not. It would be easy to say oh, I have writer’s block, oh, I have to wait for my muse. I don’t. Chain that muse to your desk and get the job done.” —Barbara Kingsolver

Until now I have never, yes never, experienced writer’s block. If I had nothing to say, I did something else; baked bread, went to the movies or a museum, walked, read a book. I was fine to not be writing. If I had nothing to say I was able to redirect and find a way to feed my creative life. But this feels different. There’s a pause which I’ve experienced before, waiting to hear from an editor or agent. But this pause is uncomfortable, and I can’t seem to avoid bad things like scrolling on my phone to watch videos of cats wearing hats, beating up bewildered dogs or simply staring the way cats frequently stare. Or insanely unhealthy food being prepared by skinny, chirpy women; pounds of butter, condensed milk, peanut butter. or chocolate baked into cookies or cakes.

photo by Jonnelle Yankovich

Maybe the distractions up here in northern Michigan are just missing. I mean, there are squirrels, there are plenty of people gawking at stuff, leaves changing, water gleaming, apples ripening and wineries offering endless farm-to-table meals. There’s a lack of conflict, of tension, of instability that fed my work before. Living in New York City I experienced envy, fear, extreme happiness, creative genius and could spend an entire day walking from the top of Manhattan to the bottom, surrounded by stories embodied in the diversity of those that lived in my city. I was also in my twenties and early thirties, dating terrible men, having friendships with crazy and intense people, working impossible jobs, working out in a studio where a man in tights called you fat and you were grateful. I had a therapist; I was living on coffee and rage at my parents.

Here I am a member of a wonderful Y populated by older people like me and well-behaved families with a smattering of awful people but not truly awful, just men yelling as they lift weights or women wearing those Lulu mom tights that make them look naked. Nothing to really write about. There’s a bossy locker room woman but hey, it’s a bad job and I’m privileged and should leave her alone even though she’s annoying and somehow omnipresent. My friends here in northern Michigan are kind and funny and mostly married or happily single. Even the ones that voted for that sick jerk are hard to dislike. We swim together and eat. There is little drama. We trade recipes and go to book club. 

I am dying here.

Meanwhile, the federal government has become something from a nightmare, attacking our cities, arresting and deporting good people, erasing history, eliminating programs that attempt to help those without resources survive, demonizing democrats and anyone who dares to point out this country was founded on the blood of immigrants and minorities. Forget about the status of women, reproductive rights, access to health care, the state of education and the erosion of the separation of church and state.

I’m not a journalist and feel unqualified to narrate the fall of this country from any perspective other than that of someone who is living in a bubble of beauty and denial. However, I will continue to seek interesting conflicts while staying married this time. I welcome suggestions for new topics. We have witnessed squirrels decimating the bird feeder, our local paper publishes a police blotter that has items like, “Two cows in the road, one brown.” People get stuck on the dune climb and have to be rescued. Something ate all my slowly ripening tomatoes.

I am dying here.

– Molly Moynahan