The Writer Who Doesn't Write
- Jun 23
- 5 min read
I am a writer. But you’d never be able to tell by my screen time hours. Or by the content of my notes app. Or where my brain goes when I do manage to find downtime. You’d probably lowkey think my identity lies solely in my life’s work of making it to level 2,000 of Pixel Flow.¹
But yeah. I’m a writer! I’m just one who doesn’t write!
I am married to a musician who likes to tell people that while he’s the songwriter, “Sarah’s the real writer,” which is actually really cute. What is less cute is everyone’s inevitable next question being, “Oh, so what do you write?” to which I usually have to answer, “Nothing!”
Because unless I’m writing for someone else—in alignment with whatever pre-written formula they already have in mind for me—I’m probably not writing at all. And what kind of writer doesn’t actually write?
As a teenager, I was convinced I’d become an author of some sort when I grew up. But I was quickly informed that while writing could very well be a hobby, it wouldn’t pay for my groceries. Or probably even my Microsoft Word subscription.
I started out my undergrad journey as a hopeful “undecided,” because I had no idea what was going on. I then committed to being an English major somewhere within that first semester. But soon, I’d befriend my beloved gaggle of elementary ed girlies² who’d convince me to go from English to—get this!—English ed.
Instead of crying through another French final³, I’d be crying over the wily, unruly behavior of middle schoolers! (“It takes a special person,” they’d all say. And I was her—she was me.)
A new path had now opened up before me, one with a secure paycheck and built-in summers off and health insurance.
The day I changed my major, the chair of our humanities department did warn me she thought I’d be wasting my talent by switching to education… and this sentiment still means a lot to me to this day (hehe).
In 2017, I graduated from my lil Christian college⁴ with that education degree, moved to Atlanta (still my favorite city forever, yee-haw), and took an eleventh-grade American Lit position in a small town east of the city.
The commute? Bad. The pay? I’ll admit that it could’ve been better. My classroom management abilities? The worst. But after a pretty ✨horrendy✨ year working outside my preferred age demographic, I got connected with a middle school position in the suburbs north of the city. Although I did find the ridiculous antics of the 12-year-olds more preferable to those of the angsty teens, I struggled with how much time I’d have to spend grading essays and sending emails to parents. (Because when you teach gifted middle schoolers, their moms really wanna see gifted grades in those report cards.)
I was not living the dream, but bills were being paid. And in the distant future, I thought I could see a life for myself as an editor. So, knowing there could be a future version of me who was hydrated, well rested, and in her lane [publishing?] was what set me on the long and winding path to Nashville, though I wouldn’t land here until I was 25, navigating my new life in a new city amidst the backdrop of a global pandemic that now threatened my perception of life as I knew it.
In 2020 (which was not a stellar year for… anyone), I made my big move to Music City. A charter school actually offered to pay for my move, in addition to a salary increase that I would not have seen if I’d stayed where I was. Even more, I was dating someone who already lived in Nashville, so many of my friends were there, too, and I was commuting up north most weekends, anyway.
It was all going to be perfect! Until it wasn’t anymore.
Six weeks after my new and exciting life in Nashville had begun, that formerly long-distance, long-term relationship was over. Feeling the urge to chop off all my hair and just do the thing in the scariest way possible, I quit teaching, started seminary classes, and accepted an editorial internship at the big church across town.
And when I tell you that it was the hardest and scariest and most worthwhile thing I’d ever done, I say it with my chest.
Even though life in the classroom didn’t end up being the forever trajectory of my professional career, I do think it was the path I needed to take to better understand who I was and how I wanted to take up space in the world… even if I had initially let practicality take precedence.
Looking back on everything I know now and all the connections I’ve made and the hard decisions I had to walk through, I’d give my younger, dumber self permission to do it all over again. But I’d also tell her to maybe start therapy sooner and hold off on downloading Hinge until she gets to a better place.
It was during that quarter-life crisis of an internship that my supervisor Amber encouraged my skills as a writer. I was being trusted to run the church blog, write devotionals, edit marketing copy, and come up with so many fun, churchy ideas that I’d get to take part in at my own campus on Sunday mornings. I was living the creative dream (even if I had to sell $5 donuts on the side to make it work). I felt like the criticisms I’d taken so deeply to heart in all those English classes didn’t have to deter me from what I wanted to do. Instead, they helped me sharpen the skills I already had, in the creative work I’d already felt called to for so much of my life.
It was here in my new life as a retired teacher (💅🏻) that I realized I could actually be a writer—whatever that looked like!—and I really could pursue work in the realm of Christian publishing. And maybe my very naive move to Nashville wasn’t the actual end of the world.
I took on freelance work creating Bible study guides and curriculum for ministry leaders, which opened the doors to my full-time job as a content specialist (yay!) and my contract gig as a production editor (slay!). But I’ve never really let myself write anything for funzies, just for myself.
I’ve always said that to do good work, I need disgruntled supervisors looming over me with furrowed brows and fingers pointing at the clock, constantly reminding me of impending deadlines, because I want to make them proud and avoid feeling like a disappointment. (Is this maybe telling us something about how I view God? 👀)
When it comes to actually being a writer and doing the hard work it requires of me, I’ve never really let myself sit still long enough to do it. Any creative ideas I might have had brewing in my head are probably being silenced by all the audiobooks and podcast episodes on two-time speed, blaring in my ears while I try so hard to beat level 2,001 of Pixel Flow.
I spend more time doing things I lowkey kind of hate instead of doing the things I actually love.⁵
So, this is me wrestling through the hard work of sitting with my thoughts and considering what I believe instead of, well… doing literally everything else.
I am now a writer who writes. This is Sarah Stayon sitting still.
2 I am eternally grateful for and will forever be a little bit jealous of my friends who are all on staff at Tioga High School without me. 😪 (And long live the Facebook Messenger group Us.)
3 Sorry I cried so much, Professor Barnhart. ❤️🩹
4 RIP, Louisiana College! Go Cats!
5 Not me quoting the Apostle Paul on y’all like that (Romans 7:15)