Here’s Why Nobody Wants To Write Anymore

No, it’s not AI

Maria (1909) oil painting by Helene Schjerfbeck. Original public domain image from Finnish National Gallery. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel.

I need to come clean.

Last year, I wrote 4 articles for my blog and a sponsored piece. If you calculate, I published an article every three months. This math went on in my head when a friend asked me

“How’s your writing going?”

For someone who’s a full-time writer, I was embarrassed to answer the question. I rushed the topic with a monosyllabic response.

I had taken a break from client work to focus on my creative writing. Still, I failed to produce any significant work. I had the time, the equipment, and a couple of ideas that could lead to a book or a series of newsletters.

But I didn’t write. I’d sit in my home office chair in front of messy drafts and still nothing. I tried sitting in front of a blank screen as well. Nothing changed. Something was holding me back. I wasn’t sure if it was an algorithm change? Was it AI? Was I bored with writing?

For months, I couldn’t get any answer. I’d sleep with a heavy heart every night for not doing the work when it was the only thing I thought about.

To my surprise, I wasn’t the only writer who’d stopped showing up; many of my writer buddies had quit their passion to get back to a 9–5 or followed a more lucrative creative pursuit.

Did we all collectively stop writing in fear of getting replaced by AI, or did we accept our failure as writers and got serious about life?

When I went looking for answers, I realised it was neither.

AI happens to be the easiest villain they could find to not address the real cause.

Our brains are cooked

Online creativity is on steroids lately. In the realm of the internet, everyone has a talent that’s waiting to be discovered.

We’re consuming data not just from our favourite creators but also from our grandma and our neighbours, aka from almost everyone we know. It’s a lot of noise to deal with. The world outside social media is no different. It’s gotten impossible to keep up with the crazy stuff happening in the real world. Be it the West Asia conflict, anti-immigration rallies, or people dying on live streams, it’s a lot for our brains to process.

Amidst all of these, we can’t overlook the silent battles we confront at home, at work, and in our relationships. Our brains weren’t wired for this kind of information overload and to be this scattered.

To write is to think.

To write is to think. And I couldn’t think clearly. I had let my surroundings take over my mental space instead of creating a boundary. Hence, I couldn’t focus. I wanted to write about some of those recurring topics, but I couldn’t get past writing the headline.

Too many thoughts to share and too many emotions to comprehend; when I should be writing more, I went mum.

It’s never going to be the same

My early writing days felt like summers in Italy. I’d come back from work and rush to my home office to write and hit publish.

My mind was organised, which made writing slide into my routine effortlessly. There was no AI, no bots, no news that could stop me from sharing my creativity. I wasn’t distracted. I wasn’t questioning my capabilities. I didn’t think I was replaceable.

The amount of patience, endurance, and focus it requires me to be a writer in 2026 is ridiculously high. It is 10X more challenging than it was before the world went crazy, even with all the help available to us.

I know it’s not going to be the same again. I know if I don’t adapt, I’ll get lost in this spiral. It’s ludicrous to write for results; it’s an entitlement to write to go viral; the only way I can stick to writing is by writing for myself.

Writing only for the heck of writing is the only way you can write consistently in this day and age.

In the time of instant gratification and instant fame, where a TikTok can attract a million followers by barely moving their torso and change their lives, a writer needs to sit down, fight their mental demons, and write something people would be willing to read by ignoring 10,000 other promising dopamine-packed pieces.

Writers don’t have an “Endgame”

Writers are Sisyphus pushing a massive boulder up a steep hill to reach the endgame. We have to prove ourselves every time we hit publish.

Even becoming a New York Times Best Seller list is not it. It might have meant something in the 2000s and 2010s, but it no longer holds the same authority. When everyone seems to be a NYT bestselling author, you start to wonder what that title actually proves.

I used to dream about being on that list. I really did. But somewhere along the way, it stopped meaning what I thought it would. I see authors who’ve made it on the list still chasing the next thing — YouTube videos, selling courses, more content, and somehow, still not content.

If you’ve ever spoken to a publicist, you’d know that selling 5,000–10,000 copies in the right window can get you on that list. Impressive, yes. But not exactly life-changing. So even when you’ve “made it,” you realize… you’d still have to worry about the mortgage.

The same pattern shows up online. Writers chase virality like it’s validation. But one viral article doesn’t mean much if you can’t do it again and again. Consistency is the real currency, and it’s getting harder to earn.

Writers, though, live in a different paradox. Too thoughtful to reduce everything to trends. Too private to dance for the algorithm. Too scattered to package themselves into a neat, sellable niche.

Ironically, the game feels easier for non-writers. One viral reel, and suddenly you’re modelling for Chanel. One viral YouTube video, and doors you didn’t even knock on start opening.

Writers, though, live in a different paradox. Too thoughtful to reduce everything to trends. Too private to dance for the algorithm. Too scattered to package themselves into a neat, sellable niche.

Maybe that’s the real tension.

Because deep down, every writer still wants to be read.

And most days, even that unrevealed, stubborn desire to be read doesn’t feel like enough.