Where Are the Words?

Dear Universe,

I’m writing to tell you that I don’t know what to write. The creative juices aren’t exactly flowing right now.

I keep waiting for words to come – the usual inspiration. Normally they write themselves in my head out of the blue – a random thought settles in and starts building, word by word. Then those words burn to get out, desperate for a place to go, and by the time I put them to paper (screen), that original thought has formulated into something semi-articulate.

But right now it’s like there are 47 tabs open in the brain browser. There are topics and themes and ideas all swimming around in there and they’re competing for attention while simultaneously refusing to come together into anything coherent.

It’s like each download is installing but nothing is ready to open yet. Forty-seven spinning wheels of death.

And it’s driving me fucking nuts. What little patience I have to begin with is wearing thin.

I can feel myself grasping for the words – thinking my way to them, forcing them. And yeah, my writing sucks when I do that (case and point: this letter). It’s just not my process.

I wish I had conclusions to make. Takeaways. Lessons. Questions even. But there’s just a swirling cluster fuck of unfinished snippets that are demanding to be lived out before they can come out in form.

I’m trying to accept that – that I don’t live or write or produce much of anything linearly. I go through these cycles. Live a little. Let things marinate. Then distill all of it into words.

Sometimes I wish it wasn’t that way. I know the world would have me be more consistent. Content calendars and writing blocks and all that bullshit. It makes me feel like my process is wrong somehow – like I’m wrong. I should just be able to sit down and flow.

But I’ve learned the hard way on too many occasions that when I push myself to be “right,” my energy and creativity suffer. My work suffers.

I won’t do that anymore.

So this is me, Universe, declaring in writing that I’m… not writing. Or that I’m mid-cycle and the words are forming. I’m integrating, which unfortunately is another term for waiting.

I freaking hate waiting. But I guess that’s just what needs to be done, so that’s what I’ll do.

If there’s a muse or something up there (over, under, around, in?) somewhere, though, I’m sending an open invitation to the word-reveal party that is apparently happening inside my brain. Tapas will be served. BYOB.

XO – Bailee

July 25, 2026