Caught In A Mood
How a serendipitous library moment with Patti Smith snapped me out of a creative funk
Every now and then, a mood hits. A fog made of thoughts, hormones, and whatever else is lurking in my system. It slows everything down—writing, focus, joy. It triggers a mix of existential dread and the kind of social anxiety I usually keep in check. When that happens, I tend to lurk on Instagram, scrolling for self-help advice and half-heartedly diagnosing myself in the comments.
Artwork by @crazyheadcomics on Instagram
This time, the mood settled in just as I was mid-blog post. The kind of chill that creeps in and pushes out whatever momentum I had. You know the kind. One minute, I’m lit up with purpose, and tapped into connection, humor, curiosity, and the next, I’m staring at the screen wondering if it’s all trash.
Normally, I write from a place of excitement. The kind of enthusiasm that pulls me out of bed at 6 a.m. to grab a notebook. It’s not performative joy. It’s propulsion! That wild feeling that maybe, just maybe, I can turn thought into meaning.
Quick tangent: the word enthusiasm comes from the Ancient Greek enthousiasmos, meaning “possessed by the gods.” Over time, the meaning got diluted, but I like the original idea. That spark we chase? Maybe it is divine.
“Even though I’m not writing at this moment,” she said, “it hasn’t diminished my certainty that I’ll return to the point where I’m expressing the inexpressible.” - Patti Smith
When I’m really in it, writing gives me a high. A sense of purpose. A way to metabolize experience. Joan Didion famously said, "I don't know what I think until I write it down." Likewise, my diary is how I make sense of my thoughts and feelings.
Trying to write without that spark, though? Torture. Like forcing down a bowl of slightly moldy blueberries while pretending they’re artisanal. Why? Because they’re expensive (true story). Or eating fistfuls of blackberries, only to discover small worms (also, true story). All that to say —what started full of promise began to reek of creative desperation. I needed to get out of the house.
So I packed up my bad mood and went to the library. Free Wi-Fi, quiet corners, offered a better chance my inner critic would shut-up. Since my partner and I put everything in storage for our upcoming Central America trip, the library’s become my unofficial office. (Catch up on that chaos in “Unveiling the Path").
There, between mental spirals and coffee sips, I wandered into the magazine section. Patti Smith was staring back at me from the Harper’s Bazaar Art Issue, December 2023. I’d just started following her Substack, so my interest was piqued. I didn’t know much about her—just that she was a punk icon, wrote Just Kids, and has serious poetic talent.
“Those words were like Gatorade to my dehydrated creative self. Not a cure, but a shift. A little air back in the lungs. I felt less afraid of the void, and more curious. What if this mood wasn’t a block, but a kind of stillness? What if the nothing is where the something brews?”
I love these “millennial moments,” where someone our age stumbles upon a legend and acts like they just discovered fire. Like that TikTok guy Dogface sipping cranberry juice to Fleetwood Mac’s Dreams, and suddenly half of Gen Z became obsessed with a 1977 hit.
Anyway. I picked up the magazine and started reading.
A library in Vancouver, July 2023
A Pep Talk from the Void
In the interview, Patti casually mentioned she wasn’t writing. Not because she was blocked—but because she was in “nothingness.” It wasn’t dramatic. Just a space between things.
She talked about watching her mom stare off in thought and, when asked what she was doing, her mom would say: nothing. Now she understood what that meant. That strange, silent space between problem and solution. The in-between. A void.
Oddly, she wasn’t fazed. She trusted that inspiration would return. “Even though I’m not writing at this moment,” she said, “it hasn’t diminished my certainty that I’ll return to the point where I’m expressing the inexpressible.”
Those words were like Gatorade to my dehydrated creative self. Not a cure, but a shift. A little air back in the lungs. I felt less afraid of the void, and more curious. What if this mood wasn’t a block, but a kind of stillness? What if the nothing is where the something brews?
Patti went on to say that if you feel that stillness, you should “animate it.” That stuck with me. Maybe part of the job is to breathe into the space—even when it feels like there’s nothing there.
So here’s me, animating it. This essay is my first exhale.
Thanks for visiting me at Wannabe Wisdom. If this resonated, share it, comment, or just sit with your own mood. Maybe the void’s trying to tell you something, too.
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