Why Do We Not Write?

I don’t write enough. I fail to prioritize it as I should. I am not Stephen King, though I should be. I don’t sit at the same chair at the same time while listening to the same music in such a way that it becomes routine. Instead, I find my way toward and away from such diligence at various times.

The ironic part is that I am my best self when I have that type of routine. Not only do I produce my best work, but I am happiest. However, despite knowing this, I find myself losing it. I take a day or two off, which leads to three or four and the next thing I know, it’s two months later and I’ve done nothing.

The lack of momentum continues from there. It avalanches downward, crashing over any and all professionalism and stoic stick-to-it-ness that I once possessed. Then I drift, occasionally thinking about my writing and hating myself for having quit and yet being unable to continue again.

It finds me again. It always does. However, when I return I am weaker. I write more slowly and my prose is more purple. I use too many adjectives and my voice is less consistent and lacks intention. I am worse.

I am forced to fight through this, though. I must sludge through all of the mediocre words that I possessed so that within a week or so of being consistent again, I approach the peak of my powers which was always three days before I quit writing.

Why do I do this? It would be easy to blame it on some form of neurodivergent tendency that I may or may not possess. I’m convinced I have some form of A.D.D. or A.D.H.D. but I’ll never find out short of a doctor telling me without my asking. That won’t happen though, so instead I simply blame myself for my shortcomings. I am lazy and I do not work hard enough.

Writing has always been the thing I am good at. This started young as I drew pictures of and wrote corresponding stories about something I called “Deathbird”, clearly inspired by the works of R.L. Stine’s “Goosebumps” series. I received A’s on everything I ever had to write for a class. I really didn’t even have to try. This seemed great at fifteen when I would much rather have stayed up till midnight playing Halo 3 rather than doing my homework but at thirty-two, I see that it created in me a problem.

I never learned to work as as child. School came easy and writing even easier. It wasn’t until I first went to college that I realized I might not be able to breeze my way through everything. I learned this the hard way, dropping out, transferring, re-enrolling and dropping out again three or four times over before I was twenty-five years old, resigning myself to quit entirely.

I resumed writing at this time. I knew it was my only shot at doing anything meaningful with my life. I committed to the extent my naive lazy self could, writing short stories constantly, even going so far as to draft and revise them.

I had discovered Poets and Writers’ website around this time and found out about short story contests. I cobbled together the little money I had to submit to a few only to be rejected after months of hearing nothing. I quit again.

I was entirely unaware of the world of literary magazines. I had never been an English major, instead majoring in (at various times), cinema-photography, radio-television, sociology and audio recording.

I knew nobody who wrote. I was the only person in my world who cared at all about the written word. I had nobody to ask questions to and very few people who would read my work. I knew nothing of how the world around me worked when it came to publishing and writing. I quit again.

Years passed by as I found my way into sales positions before realizing that I didn’t care that much about making good money. I cared about contributing to the world around me. What that means, I don’t know. What I do know is that I hated selling people on things they didn’t really need, so I went back to school online at the University of Illinois Springfield as they had a great English program.

I committed again. I wrote and completed the first draft of a novel I had been kicking around the idea of for a decade and I self published a collection of short stories on Amazon. I was doing it. I was trying.

During this time, I had the good fortune of having professors who could answer questions and actually challenge me to be better. It was an experience that I am forever grateful for. Does a Bachelors in English get you any kind of good job, though? Hell no.

I substitute taught for two years while writing. In 2025, I committed, submitting short stories to literary magazines left and right. I had three accepted! Suddenly, I felt like I was an actual writer. What does that mean though?

There is no money in literary magazines. They don’t really open doors. They really are just something you can throw into your bio and send with a query letter when you try to get a literary agent who will then try and sell your novel which will probably make you virtually no money, especially when you do the math to calculate the dollars per hour you earned.

Despite all of this momentum, somewhere in the middle of 2025, I quit again. My submissions stopped. I quit writing. Yes, I started graduate school and became a very busy man, but that’s no excuse. At the end of the day, my lack of production is entirely on me. I am the reason I have failed to write.

This changes today, though. Together, we can hold me accountable. If you fail to see this blog come out every Tuesday, you may email me. Same with the newsletter. Thank you for reading.

-Cole Purdy