Content Creation for the Perpetually Stuck
A Guide to Mining Ideas from Your Chaos, Coffee Stains, and Midlife Crises
Ah, the eternal question: What should I write about? It’s the creative equivalent of staring into an open fridge at 2 a.m., convinced there’s nothing to eat, even though you bought groceries three days ago. You’re not hungry for leftovers, but you’re also too lazy to cook. Similarly, launching an email or blog series requires sustenance—fresh, satisfying content that won’t leave your audience reaching for the metaphorical antacid. So, how do you choose? Arm yourself with humor and a mild sense of desperation.
Step 1: Stalk Your Audience (Legally, Of Course)
Your audience isn’t a monolith. They’re a quirky ensemble cast of real humans with niche hobbies, strong opinions about pineapple on pizza, and a shared interest in whatever you’re peddling. To choose topics, you must first understand them better than your ex’s Instagram feed.
Survey them. Ask what keeps them up at night (besides existential dread and TikTok).
Lurk in forums. Reddit threads and Facebook groups are goldmines for discovering their secret obsessions. (It’s probably cat memes or political jokes.)
Check your analytics. If that blog post titled “10 Ways to Fold a Fitted Sheet” got more clicks than a viral video of a sneezing panda, take the hint. Your people crave domestic sorcery.
Step 2: Brainstorm Like You’re on a First Date with a Whiteboard
Grab coffee, dim the lights, and flirt with ideas. Write down every topic that comes to mind, no matter how absurd. “Why Do We Park in Driveways and Drive on Parkways?” “A Definitive Ranking of Cereals by Crunch Volume.” Quantity over quality here.
If you’re stuck, borrow inspiration. Steal headlines from industries unrelated to yours. A finance blog could riff on “Netflix’s Top 10 Shows: A Budgeting Metaphor.” Cross-pollination is key. Just don’t plagiarize, iterate. Steer clear of copy-paste conundrums; remix, refine, and evolve.
Step 3: Embrace Your Inner Robot Overlord (a.k.a. Use Data)
Data doesn’t lie, unless it’s being manipulated by a spreadsheet gremlin. Dive into Google Analytics, social insights, or email open rates. Notice patterns:
Evergreen topics (timeless, like “How to Write a Cover Letter”) are the quinoa of content—reliable, nutritious, but occasionally boring.
Trendy topics (see: “AI-generated avocado toast recipes”) are the pop songs of content—catchy, fleeting, and prone to eye-rolls.
Aim for a mix. Think of it as a content mullet: business in the front (evergreen), party in the back (trendy).
Step 4: Ask, “Would I Click on This If I Were Stuck in a Waiting Room?”
Be honest. If your headline doesn’t intrigue you, why would it charm a stranger? Test ideas with the “Waiting Room Litmus Test”: Imagine you’re bored, thumbing through emails on your phone, and—bam—your subject line appears. Would you open it, or would you rather read a 1998 issue of People magazine?
Examples:
“5 Tax Tips That Won’t Make You Cry” not “Quarterly Financial Updates.”
“Why Your Cat Judges You (A Scientific Inquiry)” not “Feline Behavior Basics.”
Step 5: Commit… But Not Like a Marriage
Choose a theme flexible enough for serialization but narrow enough to avoid spiraling into “The Complete History of Western Civilization (Part 1 of 7,000).” For example, a cooking blog might do “30 Days of One-Pot Meals for the Lazy Gourmand.” It’s specific, achievable, and promises laziness—a universally relatable trait.
But here’s the secret: You’re allowed to pivot. If halfway through your “Zen Gardening for Beginners” series, your analytics scream, “MORE TIPS ON KILLING HOUSEPLANTS,” adjust. Flexibility is the duct tape of content planning.
Just Start
Choosing topics is like choosing a Netflix show: You’ll scroll forever unless you commit to something. Write the first idea that sparks joy (or at least mild curiosity). If it flops, delete it, blame Mercury retrograde, and try again. The internet is a big, forgiving place—mostly because everyone’s too distracted by cat videos to notice your typos.
Now go forth, armed with wit, data, and a healthy dose of self-deprecation. Your audience awaits. And if all else fails, write about how to choose what to write about. Meta sells.
Here’s why “meta” sells:
Audiences love peeking behind the curtain. People are nosy (in the best way). They want to know how things are made, especially if they’re aspiring creators themselves. A blog post titled “How I Brainstormed This Blog Post” isn’t just helpful—it’s entertaining. It’s like a magician revealing a trick, but instead of ruining the illusion, you’re building trust.
It solves a universal problem. Everyone struggles with “what to write about,” so writing about the struggle itself is inherently relatable. It’s the creative equivalent of bonding with strangers over a shared hatred of folding fitted sheets.
Meta-content is infinitely recyclable. If you’re stuck, you can write about:
How to come up with ideas (which you’re doing right now).
How to overcome writer’s block (which you’ll need after writing 500 words on writer’s block).
How to edit your drafts (which you’ll need after writing 500 words on editing).
It’s a self-sustaining content ecosystem!
Examples of "Meta Sells" in Action:
A YouTuber filming a video about “How I Film Videos.”
A baker’s blog post: “How I Tested 50 Cookie Recipes to Find This One.”
This very essay, which is about writing essays about writing essays.
In short, “meta sells” because it’s authentic, useful, and a little bit cheeky. It acknowledges the creative grind while giving your audience actionable tips (and permission to laugh at the absurdity of it all). So yes, if you’re ever out of ideas, lean into the meta. It’s like a literary ouroboros—a snake eating its own tail, but with better SEO.
Purple Memories
By Liz Dubelman
The first time I laid eyes on Lori, we were both swimming in purple. At nine years old, decked out in prairie dresses that matched like twins in a funhouse mirror, we waited backstage at Mrs. Felder’s piano recital, clutching sheet music we’d memorized weeks ahead of time. Her hair was a wild, defiant halo of curls, while mine insisted on being a perfectly obedient braid. When our gazes met, she flashed a grin and whispered, “You look like a grape.” I quickly shot back, “You look like my grape.” Mrs. Felder shushed us, but just like that, a bond was sealed—a knot tied in lavender silk with a side of mischief.
By middle school, Lori and I had become the architects of mayhem. We’d ditch classes to catch the Metro-North into Manhattan, swapping droll schoolbags for thrift-store purses jam-packed with contraband: cherry lip gloss, a battered copy of On the Road, and a pocketknife that Lori claimed was “for vibes, not violence.” We terrorized Washington Square Park, chewing Blackjack gum and heckling chess players until they sent us packing. By October, even the cops knew us: “Again, girls?” they'd ask, shaking their heads with a bemused smirk.
The day we bumped into John Lennon, the city was humming with rain and rebellion. It was 1972, and we were huddled on a fire escape in the Village, passing around a Heineken hidden in a paper bag. Lori’s boots dangled provocatively over the street as she suddenly fell silent. Below, a motley parade erupted—a riot of drums and laughter led by a bespectacled man and a fellow sporting a wild beard. “That’s Lennon,” I breathed. “And Abbie freaking Hoffman,” Lori finished, perfectly punctuating our counterculture moment.
Before we knew it, we were tumbling down the stairs, joining a chanting mob shouting “Legalize it!” until John himself closed his hand around Lori’s wrist. With a flair for the unexpected, he pulled her into the drum circle, and she yanked me along for the ride. The pot we shared tasted bitter—as if it were burning hay—but Lori coughed out a laugh and proclaimed it “the best Tuesday ever.” I still cherish a Polaroid she swiped from a tourist: John’s arm gracefully draped around her shoulders while my face, half-blurred mid-giggle, captured us in our glory days.
The ’80s found us transformed—sleek yet still unapologetically wild. We reconnected at Florante, a dim-lit bistro in the Meatpacking District, where Lori rocked up in a mud-splattered Jeep, her hair now sporting a chic platinum shag. “You look like a Bowie cover,” I teased. She responded by toasting me with a snail fork. “And you look like you’re still clinging to your rotary phone,” she quipped back. After three bottles of Bordeaux, she insisted on driving me to Wooster Street. “You’re soused,” I slurred. “And you’re boring,” she sang playfully, swerving onto Houston—just in time for the police lights to flash like disco strobe effects.
A cop leaned in through her window, flashlight raised as if auditioning for a spot on a game show. Lori greeted him with a full-on, audacious kiss right on the mouth. The officer staggered back, cheeks burning red. “Ma’am, I—” he began. “Sir?” she said with a wink, leaving him flustered like a prom date caught practicing his dance moves.
He waved us on, sans ticket.
“Why’d you do that?” I hissed later.
She shrugged nonchalantly, “He had sad eyes.”
Last year, Lori died. When the light hits just right, I swear I catch her laughter mingling with the clatter of a subway car or the rustle of a thrift-store dress.
Tonight, I pour two glasses of merlot. I drink mine. The other I leave by the open window, where the city hums its old, restless lullaby. “Still causing trouble, Lori?” I murmur into the night.
Somewhere, a car horn blares back in cheeky reply.
Other 'stacks provide more than enough fuel for me : ) Thanks Liz this is good