Why I Write

It's free therapy.

It's a strange time to be a writer.

We're drowning in information and opinions.

It can be easy to feel like nothing you say matters, that everyone and their bots are spewing information, an impossible, endless amount of it.

I'm exhausted from absorbing it all, taking in the anger, pain, and memes of humanity on a daily basis.

I fall asleep with my head buzzing, a swirl of emojis and traumatic headlines, then wake up the next day and start all over again.

One day, I imagine the weight of my head staring down at screens will make me a hunchback, Quasimotorola.

I'll be sent to a tower somewhere where I'll be left to live my remaining days ringing a red notification bell.

I'm a compulsive scroller. I open and close apps absentmindedly. My Instagram feed keeps targeting me with ketamine ads: "Get ten years of therapy in one sitting," it says.

The post after that is Kim Kardashian selling me organic cotton underwear, followed by every person I've ever met sharing their opinion on Israel and Palestine.

I remember when I was little, before phones, staring off at walls and watching flecks of dust floating through the air. My brain had time to rest then.

It didn't crave the level of stimulation it needs now. I wasn't constantly searching for my phone or getting dopamine hits from Internet strangers.

I was less aware of the death and destruction in the world.

Recently, I've been struggling to reconcile my annoyance at information overload with my desire to create information.

The choice seems to be to participate, consume, or drop out of society, and my survival skills are nonexistent. I don't know how to pickle, and we can't afford that off-grid mansion I hearted on Zillow anyway.

I'm left creating content in a world that doesn't need it.

It feels like we're all yelling at each other from our little digital windows, no one really hearing anyone else.

All our words swirl together into a black hole in cyberspace, only to be picked up and spewed out by an LLM or some other algorithmic monster of the future.

I want to be a writer in a world where no one reads and a painter in a world where art is now automated.

I tell myself writing is for me and anyone else who cares to read. I want to help people feel seen and less alone, but maybe all of this is just a cheaper alternative to ketamine therapy.

At times like this, when the world feels overwhelming, it can all feel pointless, like anything you could ever say would not be enough to pierce through the sadness, overwhelm, and noise.

Does my voice matter? Does anyone's?

But you have to keep going and doing the things that nourish you, whatever that is, no matter how pointless it may feel.

Now, more than ever, we have to create consciously, to not add to the noise, but to create meaning and connection through our work.

Words aren't enough, but they're all I have. Maybe the world doesn't need them, but I do.