Times they are a changin'...
I keep sitting down to write a blog post and I keep getting distracted halfway through, or I have better, or more pressing things to do and I've come to realize that making time for myself, to simply write or read has taken a backseat in my life. Some of it is shifted priorities, yes, but shouldn't writing have always been a priority, if I call myself a writer?
As I pack to move I keep looking at all the beautiful books I never read and I get discouraged, and a little angry. Angry at the brain injury that makes my schoolwork take longer so I have little time for any thing else, angry that I cant just accept that I don't have time to read and write and angry that I don't have limitless time and resources to tell all the stories I'd like.
And there are so many stories I could tell. But when I sit down to tell one the words and ideas don't flow like they once did. Writers block was once in a particular novel, or a certain direction of a novel, it wasn't the total and complete stopping of all creative juices whatsoever.
Once, in a very great while I'll sit down at my computer and feel the thrill that used to be so familiar, of a new idea just waiting to be told, and the knowledge that people were reading, and liking my stories.
But no more. My career, such as it was, sputtered to a stop before it got off the ground. I don't really consider myself a published author anymore, I guess because I can see so many changes in myself between that first novel and now, and how can a different person write a sequel to a novel? My entire outlook has changed, my thoughts on life, and love and everything in between are so starkly different than 5 years ago. Dare I say that my worldview has changed?
And so I hesitate. Ideas never go down on paper, stories never get told because I always lose my nerve. So much has changed, too much I tell myself. Whatever skill I once had is gone.
Well, maybe.
Or maybe its just changed. Maybe that skill can still be honed and improved. Maybe that skill still counts for something.
Maybe, just maybe, I need to just keep writing. Maybe I'll figure it out as I go along, like I do everything else.
And maybe this blogpost is the start.
The start of a new novel.
The start of writing.
The start of honing a skill.
And the end of crippling self-doubt that restrict my words and paralyze my keyboard.
Here goes nothing, world.
As I pack to move I keep looking at all the beautiful books I never read and I get discouraged, and a little angry. Angry at the brain injury that makes my schoolwork take longer so I have little time for any thing else, angry that I cant just accept that I don't have time to read and write and angry that I don't have limitless time and resources to tell all the stories I'd like.
And there are so many stories I could tell. But when I sit down to tell one the words and ideas don't flow like they once did. Writers block was once in a particular novel, or a certain direction of a novel, it wasn't the total and complete stopping of all creative juices whatsoever.
Once, in a very great while I'll sit down at my computer and feel the thrill that used to be so familiar, of a new idea just waiting to be told, and the knowledge that people were reading, and liking my stories.
But no more. My career, such as it was, sputtered to a stop before it got off the ground. I don't really consider myself a published author anymore, I guess because I can see so many changes in myself between that first novel and now, and how can a different person write a sequel to a novel? My entire outlook has changed, my thoughts on life, and love and everything in between are so starkly different than 5 years ago. Dare I say that my worldview has changed?
And so I hesitate. Ideas never go down on paper, stories never get told because I always lose my nerve. So much has changed, too much I tell myself. Whatever skill I once had is gone.
Well, maybe.
Or maybe its just changed. Maybe that skill can still be honed and improved. Maybe that skill still counts for something.
Maybe, just maybe, I need to just keep writing. Maybe I'll figure it out as I go along, like I do everything else.
And maybe this blogpost is the start.
The start of a new novel.
The start of writing.
The start of honing a skill.
And the end of crippling self-doubt that restrict my words and paralyze my keyboard.
Here goes nothing, world.
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