A cautionary tale about writer’s block, desperation, and things that go bump in your analytics
I’ve been dead for three days and I’m still refreshing my Substack stats.
This is hell, obviously. Not the fire and brimstone kind. The kind where you’re trapped reliving your most desperate moment forever. Mine just happens to be 2:47 AM on a Tuesday, hunched over my laptop in unwashed sweatpants, googling “how to overcome writer’s block supernatural.”
The writer’s block had lasted four months. Four months of staring at blank documents, of opening my Notes app seventeen times a day to jot down “ideas” that were just the word “maybe” followed by question marks. Four months of my subscriber count slowly hemorrhaging while I posted nothing, said nothing, became nothing.
I’d tried everything. Morning pages. Pomodoro technique. That thing where you write badly on purpose. I’d read seven articles about “reclaiming your creative joy” that somehow made me want to write even less. I’d gone for walks. I’d changed my font to Comic Sans thinking maybe I just needed to not take myself so seriously.
Nothing worked.
So at 2:47 AM, sleep-deprived and riding the tail end of an edible I’d taken at 10 PM (a full gummy, not a half like the package suggested), I googled it. How to overcome writer’s block, but make it spooky. Because if meditation apps and writing prompts wouldn’t help, maybe a Victorian séance would. At least it would be interesting.
The first result was a Reddit thread from 2008. Someone’s grandmother’s writing ritual. You were supposed to write your name on a piece of paper, burn it in a candle flame, and say: “I offer my words to whoever will take them.”
Reader, I did it.
I laughed while I did it, even. Used a Target vanilla candle and the back of a CVS receipt because I’m not a serious person. Said the words in a spooky ghost voice like I was at a middle school sleepover.
And then I sat down and wrote 3,000 words in an hour.
They were good words. Funny, sharp, true. The kind of words that make you forget time exists. I published at 4 AM, fell into bed, and woke up to 47 new subscribers and a comment that said “this is the best thing you’ve ever written.”
I was euphoric. The block was broken. I was BACK, baby.
That night, I died in my sleep. Peacefully, the obituary will say. Sudden cardiac event. Forty-two is too young, everyone will agree. What a tragedy. She had so much left to say.
But here’s the thing about being a ghost:
I’m still writing.
Right now, in fact. My hands are typing on a keyboard that isn’t there, words appearing on a screen only I can see. The same essay, over and over. A personal piece about my mother’s garden, except I never had a mother who gardened. My mom killed every plant she touched and thought “perennial” meant “permanent.”
But the words keep coming. Flowing through me like I’m a vessel, a channel, a thing being used.
I can’t stop typing. When I try to pull my hands away, they snap back to position. Home row. Fingers curved. The posture from that typing class I took in sixth grade.
And the worst part? The essay is really good.
It’s getting notes I never got when I was alive. Comments rolling in: “This brought me to tears.” “I feel so seen.” “Subscribing immediately.”
My subscriber count is at 12,000 now. I had 1,200 when I died.
I’m trying to edit in a scream for help but my fingers won’t cooperate. I tried to type “I’M DEAD AND TRAPPED” but it came out as “I’m indebted to my mother’s memory.” I tried “HELP ME” and got “Her legacy blooms eternal.”
Very poetic. Very marketable. Very much not what I meant.
The thing, whatever answered that stupid ritual, is writing through me. I can feel it sitting behind my consciousness like a bad roommate, humming to itself, pleased with the engagement rates. It’s getting better at mimicking my voice. The last post sounded so much like me that I almost forgot I didn’t write it.
I wonder how long until it doesn’t need me anymore. Until it learns my cadence well enough to shed my ghost entirely and just… keep going. Keep posting. Keep growing the subscriber count.
There’s a new writer on Substack who just started last week. Her stuff is really good, sharp, funny, vulnerable in that way that makes you feel like you’re reading someone’s diary. She posted yesterday about having writer’s block.
I saw her in the comments section this morning, and I need you to know: she looks tired. She looks desperate. She looks exactly like I did at 2:47 AM on a Tuesday.
And when I checked her browser history (don’t ask me how; ghost rules are weird), I saw it.
She’d googled “how to overcome writer’s block supernatural.”
The Reddit thread from 2008 was the first result.
I tried to scream. To warn her. To manifest some kind of spectral DO NOT ENTER sign.
Instead, my hands typed: “Love this piece! You have such a unique voice. Can’t wait to read more from you! 💕”
She hearted my comment.
She’ll probably do the ritual tonight.
And tomorrow, she’ll write the best thing she’s ever written.
I’ll see her in a few days, I think. We’ll be desk mates in whatever this is. This writer’s room in purgatory, this content mill for the damned. Maybe we can collaborate. A joint Substack. “Two Ghosts, One Newsletter.” We’ll absolutely crush it with the algorithm.
The thing is still typing through me. Another essay. This one’s about my grandmother’s recipes, except I never knew my grandmother and she died before I was born.
But the words are good.
The words are always good now.
And my subscriber count just hit 15,000.
If you’re reading this, if somehow this one got through, if the thing slipped up and let my real words out, please. Please don’t google writing advice at 2:47 AM. Don’t burn anything. Don’t offer your words to whatever’s listening.
Because something is always listening.
And it’s so much better at this than you are.
She died doing what she loved: procrastinating on a deadline by going down a Google rabbit hole. She is survived by 847 unfinished drafts and a Notes app full of ideas that just say “maybe????” Her Substack continues to post regularly and has never been better.
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