There are many different kinds of writing.
Some are more emotionally taxing than others. The barriers to writing pieces like Molly’s require a shit ton of emotional energy to break through. It’s exhausting.
They’re not “5 things that will amaze you this instant” clickbait listicles that can be churned out daily. They are “Here’s the account of my rape…a word that took me 3 years to even say outloud.”
Some wells are only so deep. But they are sooooooooo deep.
Sometimes I have a story that needs to be told and, once it’s told, there’s a weight lifted and I don’t feel that compulsion to share anymore.
I’m not speaking for Molly, but I relate strongly to her content. Maybe writing wasn’t her passion, but her therapy. Maybe it is her passion but the pain she has/had to endure to get something valuable onto paper proved incompatible with the other demands on her energy.
Journalists won’t run out of things to write about because the world keeps spinning and it’s their job to communicate what is happening.
Teachers won’t run out of things to write about because there are always lessons to be taught and new students to learn them.
My genre, like Molly’s, is non-fiction. I’m alive, so technically I won’t run out of things to write about because, at least for now, I keep living.
But not everything I live is worth writing about. The need to write them, and the feeling that they are interesting or useful to others is what wanes.
I’m not sure I’d call it burnout. No one wants to hear about how I stubbed my toe yesterday and I think it might be broken (just like I was convinced every other time I stubbed my toe.)
Maybe committing to quality content and honoring the integrity of your craft? Because you’d rather publish nothing than publish useless crap.