This article sucks

(The author apologizes in advance for any typos, grammatical heresies, overused Easter eggs, or f-bombs found below.)

I’m spaced out. I feel like I’m treading subliminal space, apart and yet connected to every living thing that abounds. The song “Walking in Space” from the film version of HAIR come to mind:

My body is walking in space

My soul is in orbit

With God, face to face

Floating, flipping

Flying, tripping

Tripping from Pottsville to Mainline

Tripping from Mainline to Moonville

For the past three evenings, following my spine surgeon’s instructions, I’ve taken 300 mg of the nerve pain reliever Gabapentin just before bedtime. The stubborn sciatica pain in my left leg, which has been hanging out for most of 2026, is still there this morning as I rest my leg upon an ice pack and drink coffee while voice-to-texting the first draft of this article into my phone. I’m struggling to string coherent thoughts together.

This sensation isn’t quite to the level of what I experienced the day after my wisdom teeth removal the summer when I was 15. They’d given me codeine, I believe, and I sat in my room and listened to classic rock such as the Doors for hours and found a lot of mundane things just fucking hilarious. I didn’t have a single responsibility at the moment.

The Gabapentin hangover also differs from the two times I took LSD with friends when I was 18. On both occasions, not only was everything hilarious but, being in the thick of my song lyric writing era, I jotted down some introspective but weird, nonsensical content. I think it would be fun to try LSD again just to see what I write, but I have many more reasons not to do this than to do it.

As the sciatica pain prevails and potential surgery looms closer and closer in time, I continue to empathize more deeply with people who’ve been dealing with chronic pain for years or even decades. And I realize how much I’ve underappreciated something as simple as two pain-free legs. There’s several physical activities I’ve had to pause such as (ironically) swimming, long walks, certain strength-training exercises, and even specific types of stretching. I’ve found substitutes and continue to hit the gym three to four times per week, however, so, hello, gratitude.

I’m grateful for a client-free Friday and the weekend, especially because I’m supposed to begin taking some of the Gabapentin during the daytime as well and need a few days to adjust to any additional drowsiness and spaciness.

For several days before beginning my Gabapentin nights (could that be a book title?), writing flowed easily in the early mornings. I don’t like that it’s such a struggle the past few mornings including today. But I’m glad that I’m writing this piece, no matter how average it feels, because I’m not letting a temporary (oh sweet Jesus, please let it be so) circumstance solidify into an ongoing reason not to write.

I’m not at my best but here I am. There’s been thousands of other moments in my life when I’ve not been at my best but still needed to step up, as a spouse, father, friend, or professional.

But man, this article sucks.

But man, I’m being too hard on myself.

There’s always a logical, pragmatic reason not to write, most of them internal. Sometimes our writing is dismissed, discouraged, or criticized to the extent that it feels easier to just give up. Other times we write and send something out into a universe of apathy.

Most of the time no one is asking for or ready to purchase the fledgling article, book, play, poem, or screenplay that means so much to us. An astonishing level of intrinsic motivation is necessary to show up daily and write a complete first draft of anything and then keep coming back to it and making it a little better each day until we’re ready to distribute it to the world and face whatever reactions come next, including silence. At that point the creative work no longer belongs to just us.

There’s victory in showing up and drafting the work and getting it across the nuanced satisfaction threshold and shipping it. Yeah, that’s right; at some point we have to die to the quest for perfection and ship that motherfucker. As Salt n Pepa might sing, ship it real good.

Any person who shows up to write every day and share their content is immediately, without any formal induction ceremonies (the “thank you, sir, I’d like another” paddling scene in Animal House just flickered for me), a member of an elite, small percentile of the world‘s population. Most people give up before or during the first draft.

Think about this: Aside from Substack, professional journalism colleagues, or any writing communities or academic programs with which we’ve been involved, most of us, myself included, don’t personally know many individuals who’ve, let’s say, written a book and made it available to the world.

(Man, this article still really sucks and I can’t believe that you’re still reading it.)

Both of my older sisters are also dealing with their own health challenges right now, more extensive than mine, including one who’s scheduled for a hip replacement. All three of us are being forced to adjust to a season of our lives where we’re not going to return to the same physical condition we enjoyed for decades, dealing with elements that won’t be 100% “cured.” We’ve each had to make and will continue to make so-called “lifestyle adjustments.”

For me, implementing these adjustments isn’t nearly as hard as my mind trying to catch up with my body and accept these new realities. There’s still a lot of delusion, no shortage of familiar and well-refined positive self-talk, the stubborn narrative that I’m going to fully overcome these things just like I’ve triumphed over everything else with enough effort and savvy, that I’ll soon be able to once again live a younger man’s life in an older man’s body.

Something I’m pondering…

As I lean into making a transition from delusion to acceptance, how much do I continue to write and talk about these physical ailments I’m experiencing? How much is too much, giving way to self-absorption, whining, attention seeking or, God forbid, narcissism? Where do I draw the line? Is there even a line?

Or…is this yet another classic case of John simply overthinking. After all, I’m sharing stories and reflections here regarding certain elements of growth, loss, identity, and mindfulness, either directly or indirectly, and that’s on point with the current iteration of my Substack profile bio. This is the stake I’ve powered into the earth, the flag I’ve planted upon the gravely dark side of some moon. So, spaceman, just go with it.

The late poet Mary Oliver said that our “endless and proper work” is to pay attention. Even when we’re spaced out. To show up in random contexts and be willing to write something that sucks.