Kat Atwell is a freelance writer, blogger & stage presence telling stories that deliver laughs, validation & community.

Mental Health | Wellness & Self Image | Experiential & Reviews

Therapist: And what do we say when we feel like this?

Me: We wait for someone more talented and creative to say something because we really shouldn’t be writing anyway. The world is a sad place, I lack discipline, it really doesn’t matter. I should just watch some more Handmaid’s Tale.

Therapist: No.


Writer’s block is real. Falling down a creativity hole is a thing. I’ve been languishing at the bottom of the ocean with that weird light-up fish from Finding Nemo, wondering what the hell happened to the right side of my brain.


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Obviously, my inclination has been to not write at all. I have nothing worth writing about. The news as of late has left me feeling pretty helpless, but that doesn’t explain nearly all of July. I haven’t made art. I haven’t done a storytelling show. I haven’t performed any improv. I’ve gotten nothing published. It’s like I’ve eaten sand.

So, I figured today I’d say screw it and write for no other reason than to write. Ta-da.

I think a lot of it has to do with the summer. I’m not one for consistent 90-degree temperatures. If I was to go back to the Midwest now, I’d be the whiniest whiner to ever whine. I wrote wine first. That should be noted. And I likely would be a pretty impressive winer as well. It’s suffocating and slow and BLUH.

I haven’t been depressed, I don’t think. Maybe I have? Hmm. No. Just apathetic. I’ve watched too much Queer Eye and have found myself wishing someone would submit me as a makeover project. I want a reboot, or maybe just a boot. Man. Another reason summer is not great - the lack of boots.

A few weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to visit my brother and his family in the bay area. There was one day we took a drive and wound up standing on the beach, looking out at the Pacific ocean. As someone who has spent maybe a combined total of 15 hours in the past 43 years close enough to hear the waves slosh up on the shore, part of me thinks having an ocean at my disposal would really help my mind find its way back to a more creative space. Why haven’t I wanted to be nearer to an ocean? Why didn’t I realize until just now what I’ve been missing?

Until I can visit the ocean regularly, I suppose I’ll have to count on the moon. The other day, I was talking to a friend about the moon, and women, and the red tent and cycles and all that stuff. Without a uterus, I’ve felt a little disconnected from the more feminine aspects of myself. I don’t know my ebb and flow any more. Let’s be honest, though: One of the reasons behind the hysterectomy was that I never had a predictable cycle in the first place. Ever. But back to the point. I mean, I know my ovaries are still in there, sending out some kind of signal, but it’s like I have a radio dial in the middle of the night set to AM, and every time I think I’m about to hear them communicating, it scratches back to dead air.

I want to find my rhythm. I just forgot how to spell that word. I mean that on an inner and outer level. I’m not the only one I know who has felt like her mojo has fallen by the wayside. I’ve been womp-womping my way through the last few months. I’d like to get off the womp-womp bus.

More positively put - I’m choosing to step off the womp-womp bus. Things don’t change unless we do. Blaming the weather and the moon and the tides and democratic debates and my messy house and people pointing to mental health as the root cause of mass shootings doesn’t actually change anything. Although, it’s super tempting to point the finger at any one of those things.

So, instead, I’m going to write for the sake of writing, even if the writing is directionless and beige. Case in point - this blog. But, I have to start somewhere.

Creativity is messy, and I am very creative.
— unknown

The Library

A Collection Of Haiku Dedicated To My Facial Hair