When the Words Went Quiet

I’ve been cheating on my blog.

Not with another blog. That would at least be terrible, wouldn’t it?

I’ve been having an affair with tomatoes.

And zucchini.

And ADHD support group meetings.

And workshop planning.

And therapy dog training.

And trying to figure out why my English Ivy, Charlotte, insists on behaving like a Victorian heroine despite receiving perfectly adequate care.

In fairness, I’ve been busy.

Life has not exactly been idle these past several weeks. If anything, it’s been wonderfully full. There have been meetings to organize, gardens to tend, meals to cook from scratch, projects to build, conversations to have, and the ordinary chaos that comes from trying to build a meaningful life.

But somewhere in the middle of all that, something quietly disappeared.

I stopped writing. Not intentionally. Not dramatically. 

I didn’t announce that I was taking a break. I didn’t burn my notebooks in a symbolic act of creative despair. I simply… stopped.

The strange part is that I didn’t notice it right away.

Writing has always been so woven into the fabric of my life that I assumed I’d get back to it tomorrow. Then tomorrow became next week. Then next week wandered into the following month.

It wasn’t until recently that I realized I hadn’t published anything on my blog in over a month.

That surprised me.

Writing has been a part of my identity for as long as I can remember. I wrote my first screenplay when I was thirteen. I’ve written songs, stories, novels, poems, blogs, journal entries, other screenplays, and half-finished ideas noted in my Notes App on my phone because inspiration has terrible timing sometimes.

I’ve often joked that I don’t know how not to write.

Apparently, I do.

Naturally, my first instinct was to ask the practical questions.

Am I too busy?

Am I burnt out?

Have I simply run out of things to say?

Maybe.

Even the good old, tried, tested, and true garbage that my asshole brain tries to convince me of reared its ugly head - what’s the point?

But I don’t think the answers to all those tell the whole story.

The reality is, I predominantly write for myself.

Writing has always been how I untangle complicated thoughts. It’s where I test ideas, challenge my assumptions, and occasionally discover that I was spectacularly wrong about something I’d been convinced of only three paragraphs earlier. 

Writing has never simply been about producing words. It’s been about becoming.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth.

Even people who write for themselves quietly hope someone will care.

Not everyone.

Not millions of people. 

Just… some.

Even a baker who makes a loaf of bread is looking to share it and witness the (hopefully) joy in the person's consumption of their masterpiece. They’re not looking for applause, but connection. 

Over the years I’ve watched my audience remain stubbornly, almost comically, unchanged. Algorithms came and went. Social media evolved. I kept writing.

Friends and family rarely mentioned the blog.

New readers never arrived.

But even though I have to admit that hurts, that’s not it. At least, that’s not all of it.

Maybe I don’t need writing the way I once did.

For years it was my therapist who never interrupted me. It patiently accepted every half-formed thought, every contradiction, every grief I couldn’t yet name. I could arrive at the page confused, angry, scared, sad, and leave understanding myself just a little bit better.

Lately though, life has felt… different.

Not perfect. Certainly not easy. But… fuller.

I’m finding purpose in building community - at least trying to. I’ve discovered joy in growing things that seem determined to test both my patience and my optimism. I’ve spent evenings planning workshops, dreaming about businesses, cooking meals from scratch, and creating things that exist outside the pages of a notebook, real or digital.

Maybe I’m simply living more and processing less.

Maybe writing was a raft I needed to cross a difficult river, and now I’m standing on different ground.

It’s a comforting theory.

There’s just one problem.

If that’s true… why haven’t I written more fiction?

Stories were never therapy.

At least, I don’t think they were.

Nobody writes about magic, enchanted worlds, and impossible prophecies because they’re trying to untangle Tuesday’s emotions.

Or maybe they do.

I honestly don’t know anymore…

Perhaps writers don’t lose their words.

Perhaps they enter seasons where they’re meant to listen instead.

Or perhaps I’m giving this far too much thought and simply need to sit down tomorrow with a cup of hot chocolate and start typing.

I don’t know.

I don’t know whether I’ve changed.

I don’t know whether my silence is rest, fear, contentment, rejections, or simply life unfolding in a different rhythm.

I don’t know whether my next piece will appear next week or three months from now.

I don’t even know whether this piece marks the end of my silence… or merely documents it.

What I do know is this.

After weeks of believing I had nothing to say, I’ve somehow written 800 or more words about not writing.

Which is either wonderfully ironic…

…or a very good sign.

Ⓒ July 2026. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.