I used to write all the time. I carried a notebook with me everywhere and would always be found jotting down ideas. More often than not, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and bleary-eyed, I’d pick up a pen and the writing pad on the nightstand next to me, and write out the dream I had, or the idea that was running through my brain making it nearly impossible to sleep.
But then, something happened. I hit a block. It’s not that the ideas weren’t there, but I hit a depression that struck me so deeply, I actually felt nauseous when I tried to write. It scared the shit out of me.
While I managed to pull myself out of that dark pit, I have been working on healing a broken heart that has been a very long, slow process, one that is taking much longer than I’d like to admit. I’m uncomfortable with it. I’m struggling with it. And my writing is suffering for it.
For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t writing. Or, no, that’s not it. I couldn’t allow myself to admit that a heartbreak, or a guy, or anyone would ever affect me so much that I couldn’t do the thing that meant the most in the world to me. Are you kidding me? ME? I thought I was a ferociously independent woman who didn’t need anyone but herself to get by. This couldn’t be! But it was. And I had let it happen. I let myself get buried so deeply in someone else’s dreams that I didn’t let my own matter anymore. Side note: this isn’t any other individual’s fault. This is my own. No one forced me to get so invested in anyone else, it was my own co-dependent nature that did this to me. It is something I am doing my damnedest to work on so I never do it to myself again.
But now I find myself wondering if writing is even something I should be trying to do anymore. I love writing for work (corporate content). I love writing for Beautiful Bizarre Magazine (go check out my posts here and here). I don’t know if I love writing novels any more. I thought maybe I should just quit, and if I could let myself quit, then that would be my answer. But, my entire being resents and rejects that. I can’t quit. I don’t want to. I want to finish revisions on this book I’ve been trudging through for the past three years. I want it. I know I want it. So…the question is…what is the hold up?
I’m still healing and growing and learning, but I want to figure out how to write through the ups and downs, because life is not going to be a perfect, flat road forever, and I certainly don’t want it to be. That’s boring as hell.
I’ve got self care nailed down. I exercise regularly, get out with friends, read, sketch, take nights off to watch Netflix, play video games, cuddle the cat, you know, all the good things. But, I still have this weird feeling about working on these books. Maybe it’s just revisions.
Anywho, I didn’t write this post because I have answers. I wrote it for a few other reasons:
- Social media makes everyone’s life look easy. It’s a lie. We all fight our demons and I don’t want people to think my life is sunshine and rainbows all the time when it isn’t. I think that’s okay. And, I think it’s important to share that so everyone else knows that it’s okay to hurt sometimes (saying all this though, I want to be clear that I’m not looking for a hug or pity, I’m just being real).
- I’m searching for answers. If anyone has ideas, advice, or tips to help me get my writing back on track, please share.
That’s it. That’s all for me today.
Oh! One more thing. The focus for this blog is going to change a bit. Initially, the idea was to share short stories I was writing, but most publications consider blogs to be published work, and they won’t take published work. I’ve written a number that I haven’t shared here, so the blog has been deceptively empty. I’m going to write more about writing challenges, continue with prompted blurbs that I don’t intend to build on and share a bit more about what inspires me. Perhaps sharing these types of posts will help me process my crap a bit more, and inevitably lead me back to delving in to the writing again.
Thanks for reading!