Here is the Writer’s Block You'll Call Back

It ghosted you first—but now you’re the one haunted.

“When words don't come easy, I make do with silence and find something in nothing." — Strider Marcus Jones, Poet

The Ghosted Writer

I’m in a weird, blurry in-between place at the moment. Floating in the goo between worlds and stories.
Like a chrysalis with Wi-Fi.

My tarot deck project just hit a summit, which is dope, but now I’ve got to scale a new one. I’ve never been here before, so it’s time to level up and learn some new shit.

There is a stillness in the air…
The sky is a blank page filled with paper clouds and anxiety.
The steam train that steams dreams isn’t quite here yet.
The forecast keeps glitching.

I’m stuck at Writer’s Block Station. There is no time here, but it’s getting cold. It’s going to get dark soon.
And I can feel my inner demons pacing in the dark, rubbing their little claws together, ready to eat me alive, with a side of self-doubt and blueberries.

This limbo sucks, but I don’t feel like fighting.
I don’t feel like taking my hoops out and putting my hair up.

I think I should feel it. Sit in the discomfort. Let it crack open the floorboards and see what slithers out…

Oh, fuck.
Am I growing?
Is this growth?

Ew.
Someone hand me some tweezers…

---

All worry and no play makes Shaunté a dull babe.

Here’s what I know:

When I have writer’s block, it’s usually because I’m lying.
Either to myself or to someone else.

I’m full of shit about something, or I’m scared that what I’m about to reveal will burn the whole house down, and leave me in the aftermath of a blown-up life, with soot in my throat and ash perfume stinging my nostrils.

So I hide. Between the margins. In the footnotes. In the creases.

Which begs a few questions: What am I hiding from? And is it really that bad? Why has a fog rolled in? What is this fog trying to tell me? And is it really true?

I’m clearly not fully blocked, because I’m typing right now.
I’m typing from a weird, gorgeous, and grungy liminal limbo.

There are strange billboards at the station with cryptic messages I can’t read.
And this ticket is burning a hole in my pocket, but the train is still not here.

So what do you do when writer’s block hits, you’re stuck at Liminal Station, and your train’s nowhere in sight?

---

Some ideas for you, my weary traveler:

1. Ghost your writing.
   Quit. Walk away. Bail. Tell the project to go to hell. Throw a drink in its face and storm out dramatically.
   You can always go back to it later, but giving yourself permission to abandon it lets you off the hook and gives your mind room to roam and problem-solve.
   There’s power in fake breakups.

2. Play the Greatest Hits.
   Grab your favorite book. The one that’s so good it hurts your feelings. Dust it off and give it a fresh read.
   You’re a different person now. See if it still lands. You might discover a few things you missed the first time. It might inspire you.
   My favorite book is The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern. What’s yours?
   (This also works with albums, movies, or that TV show you binge when no one’s around and your life feels like a dumpster fire.)

3. Make your project jealous.
   Do something else that lights you up. Skip to another hobby.
   I like to work in the Monster Garden, though strangely it’s been raining all week in LA, so I’m going to tackle the mountain of snail mail on my desk.
   I freakin’ love snail mail. It’s creative, and the bar is set so low.
   It’s literally at kindergarten level.
   You win if you don’t eat the washi tape. What’s not to love?

4. Double Down.
   Bluff your ass off and go all in. Challenge your demons to a rematch. Open your voice memo app or grab a journal, set a timer for three minutes, and dare yourself to write down the lies. All of them. The ones you whisper, the ones you deny, the ones dressed up as half-truths in fabulous outfits.
   Ask yourself:
   What am I so afraid of unearthing?
   Is this a lie? And is it really that bad?
   Then reframe it. This isn’t a block, it’s a brick. Which you can use to throw at your demons.

5. Enjoy the party.
   Liminal limbo is like stumbling into a weird party where you don’t know anyone but might leave with a tattoo.
   Look around.
   What are you wearing? What’s on your desk? What did you eat for lunch? Who is blowing up your phone?

   Those details are important.

   The stories you carry in your life matter.
   Do they match the ones you want to bring with you?
   If not—leave ’em at the station.

A lot of humans always want to run toward certainty. There’s so much fear in the unknown. In the in-between.
Yes, you’re growing new muscles, and they’re fragile, but that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re transforming.

Don’t rush it.

Let the fog roll in. Let the stories settle into your suitcase, or the fireplace.
They know what to do.

The liminal won’t last forever. Your train is coming.

Until then…
Scribble outside the lines.
Slow dance in the fog.
Look for detours, and play double-dutch with your demons.

See you next week, my lovelies…✨💜✨