I’m struggling to find my writing voice

NOTE

This post was originally published on Substack.

Here’s a confession: I haven’t been writing.

In my last post back in December, I mentioned how excited I was about my two weeks off. I needed that time to recharge, spend time with loved ones, and do things that bring me joy. But I was also ambitious, and deep down, I hoped to get some writing done. And I was off to a fantastic start, somehow managing to write and publish something on Christmas. (I promise it’s not as pathetic as it sounds.)

I did it—I successfully posted once a week for an entire month! Who would have thought? My excitement was electrifying, and almost immediately, thousands of article ideas swirled around my head.

I should write about the New Year, I thought. Just like what my favorite podcasts were doing. It didn’t even have to be about goals, resolutions, and all that jazz. Just something about 2024. It was timely, and it would force me to produce something—and to do it soon.

Unfortunately, all my plans disintegrated into thin air.

The rest of my vacation passed by in a blur of good food, audiobooks, journaling, yoga, and gaming. Of spending an insane amount of time in the kitchen, whipping up more dishes and baked goods than our fridge could handle. Of seeing visitors come and go. Of trying—and failing—to fix my broken sleeping schedule, finding myself helplessly wide awake in the wee hours, and eventually muttering “fuck it” as I embraced my new life as a temporary night owl.

Before I knew it, the corporate world had me in its clutches again.

And I hadn’t written a single word.

Snatches of writing

I don’t regret any of it.

I had a lot of fun. I even managed to do some errands and admin tasks I’d been putting off for weeks. As I mentioned, the past couple of months had been overwhelming, so I desperately needed to take things slowly and focus on self-healing.

I also haven’t completely thrown writing out of my life.

Faithful to my yearly tradition, I spent the remaining days of 2023 reflecting on the year. It was my little morning habit for a while: I’d prepare my favorite iced Spanish latte, play some relaxing music, and start rummaging through my brain. I pondered on the milestones, highlights, and victories of 2023. On what I was sad or regretful about, and what I could have done better.

As soon as 2024 arrived, I focused on my New Year’s goals and resolutions. In between, I journaled about everyday stuff, no matter how simple and mundane it was. Like what I did that morning, or my plans for the rest of the day.

And since I vowed to be more sociable this year, I even had pen pal-like interactions with a few people online, which, of course, also involved writing.

So, in a way, I have been writing.

But it wasn’t Substack. It wasn’t the little writing project that was supposed to pull me out of my writer’s slump, give my life a sense of direction, and make me fall in love with writing all over again.

Hitting a wall

I have lots of goals for this year, including being more consistent with writing.

It was still the second week of January when I started drafting this post. At the time, I was eager to regain momentum but wanted to be realistic, so I aimed to publish at least two Substack articles that month. I thought it would be a piece of cake.

But weeks later, I’m still stuck in the same article.

Trust me, I tried my best. I’d make myself my trusted coffee on Sunday mornings, ready to spend the next couple of hours churning out a new article, but I always ended up staring at a blank Word document for far too long. Or, if I were lucky, a few lines of incoherent ramblings.

Since I’m not one to give up so easily, I decided to switch things up and try writing at night instead. Armed with a cup of warm tea and lo-fi music playing in the background, I’d beg the Muses to grace me with their presence, but to no avail. I had dozens of ideas, but it wasn’t enough to yank me out of my rut.

I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of not finding the right words. Of starting an article and then abandoning it. Of not being the writer I wanted—needed—to be.

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with writing, so it was hardly a surprise when the whole process started feeling like a chore. Yet again.

Every time I started a new project, I was beyond thrilled, ready to astonish the world with my eloquence and writing prowess. But inevitably, before the project could develop into something meaningful, the spark would fizzle out.

The words wouldn’t come out. Or when they did, they fell flat.

Like now.

Even I know perfectly well how lackluster this article is. How agonizingly dull. It’s the kind you’d stop reading after a couple of lines. I’d be lucky if someone’s eyes grazed down an entire paragraph.

But I don’t have a choice; this is the best I can do at the moment. If I want to get back into the groove, I need to embrace the unglamorous side of writing and work with what I have, hoping that, by some miracle, my words will eventually become a little more engaging.

It’s not just this article alone, but my writing ability in general. When I start my writing ritual and don my “Substack hat,” I immediately feel an immense pressure weighing down my shoulders.

You’re about to work on your latest writing project. You better not mess this up, a voice hisses, and I feel myself cowering in the corner as this shapeless monster points an accusing finger at me. This better be successful; otherwise, you can never call yourself a writer again.

It all goes downhill from there.

A dangerous spiral

Sometimes, I try too hard to be creative, and my prose comes out flowery and convoluted. Other times, my writing is so simplistic that I know I won’t be able to hold a reader’s attention for more than a few seconds.

Meanwhile, when I work on other writing activities, like composing yet another love letter to my boyfriend, journaling, or sharing a random personal story on Reddit, the final text is compelling and effectively showcases my writing skills.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been revisiting my published Substack articles, and it was excruciating. I felt appalled and amazed at equal proportions, my mind oscillating between “Did I genuinely write those?” and “How did I manage to publish five articles?”

It’s embarrassing to admit, but at one point, my finger hovered over the “Delete Post” button for a long time.

But thankfully, I decided against it. And now, a couple of months later, here I am. I somehow managed to finish something, even if it’s subpar, all over the place, and a far cry from the personal essay that was supposed to prove my worth as a writer.

Regardless, I did it.

Against all odds

I hope that after a few months of writing consistently on this platform, I can look back on my posts with a sense of pride and nostalgia. Perhaps I’ll even find it amusing that I almost let my crippling self-doubt stop me from writing, the way it had in the past.

But not this time.

Today, I emerged victorious.

As long as I have something to say, as long as I find the writing process rewarding, I’ll keep at it, even if everyone else—especially the demonic voice inside my head—tells me otherwise.

I’ll continue reading, writing, and experimenting until I finally discover my elusive writing voice. It seems like a pipe dream now, but I want to reach a point where I can consistently produce high-quality articles that fully capture my thoughts and how I feel.

I’ll get there one day. I’m owning it.