It seems like forever since I got lost beneath a sea of words, paragraphs flowing, ideas relentless.
Writers block: it’s the worst. I’ve had it for what seems like months now and it’s been weighing me down like a mental fatigue. Every time I have an idea I shy away from it, the lights are off; no one’s home.
Guilt eats at me with every blip. I have drafts sitting in my WordPress which I can’t seem to revisit. Why do I choose to write? Do I even still enjoy it, or am I determining “success” based on how others see me? Are my blogs a creative outlet, or simply used as evidence that I too, am consistent. That I too, have ambition.
In a way, I miss being sad – like sad to the point that the only thing stopping my tears are words, released. When I’m sad, like really, really sad – I write my way out of sadness. And when I’m angry, I hold up words like a shield or a sword et voila, a masterpiece is born….
….Maybe not, but it’s definitely cathartic.
Seeing short stories I’ve poured my heart and soul into rejected time and time again have bruised my ego and made me react like “Well, I never wanted you that much any way”. Maybe, my reason for not being able to write is fear of rejection.
Evidently, I care too much what people think. It’s as if I’m unconsciously following trends, only believing something looks good when everyone else is wearing it. Not feeling good enough in the eyes of the reader, a thought process which hinders not only my creative flow but plays out into everyday life.
I give thanks every day, for all the things that aren’t promised: my mother, family, friends, health, life; livelihood. In a way, this awakened gratitude provides yet another excuse to ditch the word flow. Often, my blogs are an inspired reaction to negative thought. Things I have little control over suddenly seem clear once I’ve written them down.
I guess I haven’t felt inclined to process so much heaviness. I’ve been enjoying a content cruise along nonchalance. Even though I still have the occasional daymare about something bad happening; an irrational fear that my headache is a brain tumour, or, a strong reaction to politics, I’ve mostly been lapping up the good stuff. Friends, family, work; PARTIES. It’s been helpful taking a break.
It’s easy to obsess over the past and future, despite wanting to stay present. Sometimes I want to just BE and sharing my reflections can prohibit that.
A friend suggested I write about how happy I am: everyone I love is OK, I have an awesome job, life is one big great adventure! Well – I can’t think of anything worse than boring my readers with a conceited prose of optimism. For starters, no one likes a show off (I have a deep-rooted “like me” complex) and furthermore, I want my words to be relatable, to talk about the feelings we share but don’t necessarily reveal.
Making the choice to write is difficult. It’s like setting oneself homework knowing that no-one’s around to mark the paper. I have to proof read my own work and sometimes don’t spot mistakes until months later, believing I’ve let myself down. Plus, once I have published something, I’d rather never read it again. It’s a bit like watching yourself played back on camera: the whole experience can feel demeaning.
Writing has been a loyal friend to me over the years. As a child, my mother was anti-television and I had no choice but to create. My brother proved to be a fantastic artist and can draw almost anything in intricate, precise detail.
I was 5 when I wrote my first rhyme.
6 when I wrote my first story.
7 when I started my first journal.
9 when I received my first publication (a poem, about autumn).
Aged 10, I wrote my first book “Angela”. I’d come home every day from school and head straight upstairs to write. I didn’t care to eat, play, sleep. I was obsessed: a girl with dedication.
My mum found the book in a box of old junk and insisted I read it. When I did, I was surprised. I discovered I was a child who embraced emotion and had an outlet to process them. When my mother asked if I felt proud, I really did. I’d spent my entire school life believing I was stupid thanks to the majority of my teachers treating me as such.
I’m always consciously transparent in my writing which can leave me feeling open and exposed. That said, I guess it’s perfectly fine to take a break when I need it; to vacate from something I’ve been doing since I was able to hold a pen.
I’m going to end this by questioning one more time, why I choose to write? The answer is simple. I write, because I can.