Journal #1
Created with http://www.kittl.com
I call myself a writer, but… I don’t spend a lot of time actually writing.
It’s a contradiction that plagues me daily. The compounding minutes spent side-eying the title in my bios, or hesitating when asked about my dream career, have left me dazed and stagnant. This wasn’t always the case though. During college, I pumped out multiple poems, short fiction stories, and essays weekly. I didn’t always enjoy it, but it was definitely my prime in terms of productivity. I even created this blog (on my first try) during that time period. It was originally focused on creative writing, tips for how to write, and analyses of author’s works. But, I stopped posting and eventually had to pivot.
Why?
Well, I call myself a writer, but most of my time is spent thinking about what I’d like to write rather than actually writing about it. Whether it be dreaming up fantasy worlds I’d like to create, or emotions and images I’d like to share, I am always thinking. But for the past year or so, it’s been like pulling teeth to put it on paper. And very on brand, I’ve been thinking about why that is.
Am I burned out from school? Still? I mean, finishing a forty page final while packing up my entire dorm definitely counts as its own form of trauma. Before that, I didn’t even know that I was capable of staying awake for over twenty hours. It’s also barely been a year since I graduated. But, it also feels deeper than that.
Have I fallen out of love with the craft? Or am I just running away from rejection and the fear of inadequacy again? Is there even any tangible excuse?
In a way, I think I’ve always associated writing with struggle, with resistance. My mind actively criticizes, restricts, and pushes against the words in my head before they make it to the page. To be honest, that constant shifting, editing, and second guessing is tiring. It makes a person too exacting at their own expense.
It’s much easier to watch from afar than to experience life; much easier to say things than to do them. Writing is much the same for me. It is much easier to dream about my stories than to write them when I invest so much of myself into each page. In my head, my thoughts are safe..ish. There is no judgment other than my own. There is no risk and ultimately no reward. The question, “Am I good? Am I good?”, can only be pondered over and over again rather than reaching an answer I’m too afraid to discover. Instead, I just…stay… still. It feels easier this way, at least in the short term. In reality, the stories in my head won’t let me rest until I let them out. So, what else am I to do?
Life Without Limits 