Have you noticed how quiet this blog has been lately? Yup, me too. I feel bad about it, I really do, but every time I try to figure out what to post I come up blank.
That’s pretty much the problem with all of my writing recently. And by recently I mean the past, um three years? That’s just a guess. In reality it feels like a lifetime. I used to love writing. I couldn’t wait to get to my computer every day and spew out all the thing that had been circling around in my head since the last time I’d been able to sit down and write. I loved the challenge of even the most mundane assignment. Now, not so much.
Without going in to great detail suffice it to say that things have changed for me over the past few years. A bunch of little things combined with a few big things have caused a big part of me to “die” so to speak. It’s just not there anymore. I can’t access a big part of who I used to be. At first I just mourned the loss and tried to push through it. It didn’t really work. Everything creative that I’ve tried to do has been awful. Beyond the normal awful for a first draft stage. I’ve procrastinated every nonfiction and technical assignment until it couldn’t be put off any longer then felt that I wasn’t exactly putting my heart, or most of my mind, into what came out on the page for those assignments either. It wasn’t my best work.
I thought maybe I was taking on too much. I’ve whittled away most of my clients and stopped looking for new assignments, giving myself permission to write just because I want to write. It hasn’t worked. In the last few months I’ve been trying to find new ways to stimulate the creative side of my brain: visiting museums, taking art/craft classes, picking up my sewing supplies. Nope. So far that hasn’t worked either.
I don’t feel like a writer any more. I just feel empty. Is a writer still a writer if they can’t write? If I’m not a writer who am I?
Could you ever walk away?