I haven't written in over three months. I'd been on a roll, the best of my life, actually. I was writing almost daily. I had a story to tell and it was flowing out of me and onto the paper like snow melt in the spring. It felt like magic. It WAS magic. Then it stopped.
Why did it stop? That's easy. Life blew up as it is sometimes wont to do. I stopped writing to focus on a crisis, a very worthy crisis.
Why haven't I started again? That's a little trickier. There are all kinds of simple, logistical reasons. I no longer had a routine with scheduled time away from schooling my daughter. I had taken on new responsibilities. I was exhausted. I was coming to terms with some medical issues. All entirely reasonable justifications, but I know they don't tell the whole story.
Can I get closer to the truth? Maybe. I was emotionally exhausted. There. That's a little closer. I was tired. I couldn't make myself do it.
Make myself? Shouldn't something I want be easy to fall into? Shouldn't it be like a comforting embrace? Do I want to write? YES! I want it. Some days I ache for it, and still can't manage to summon the force of will to sit down and do it.
Why is it hard? Setting aside, for the moment, the fact that writing is work, and work can be hard, why is it hard for me to start doing it? There. I think that is the central question, the tough, seedy core of my dilemma. Why is it hard for me to start writing? Because it feels like something I am not allowed to do. Writing feels transgressive. Stories are something that other people tell.
Can I transgress? Let's find out.
No comments:
Post a Comment