Confession time: I write listicles—a lot of listicles—and it’s ruining me as a writer.
In a fervent attempt to become a “real writer,” I’ve recently made an effort to stop pitching listicles.
No more will I churn out numbered posts detailing the lies you tell yourself when you’re procrastinating, nor the best ways you can fake your way through a carefree summer, nor X thoughts you have when you’re marinating in a lukewarm bath.
I took the plunge a few months back and plugged my brain in to come up with some real ideas. Much to my surprise, I had some success.
“Sure,” replied Ms. Editor, “If you can get it to me next Monday—at least 2,000 words.”
Oh, what have I done?
I can’t write anymore. The thought of producing 2,000 well-structured words, with flowing narrative and continuity, makes me sweat.
I used to be able to write—really write. Words gushed out, unstoppable.