This is not a post about writing skills but about life .
I used to be arrogant about my ability to write through depression. I would find a way to sit my butt down and get my ideas on paper, no matter the amount of sadness or anger or lack of energy. I had – and sometimes still do have – the ability to detach myself from my real world problems and focus on my imaginary world of Jaydür.
Sadly, this has not been the case, as of late. Ladies and gentleman, the cock has left the coop. My arrogance has been humbled. My brain has been shut off and my ability to detach has been…undone.
I am swimming in a dark pool of writers inability. I don’t want to say writers block because the ideas are there and the words are there but the energy to put them on paper is gone. My motivation’s been belittled and I’m trying to claw my way out of others’ judgements and scrutinizing stares.
I spent decades not caring about others’ opinions. I did my thing. I was looked at, pointed at (and in response, busted out my weird moves and odd expressions. That’s the part where people would look away because there’s just nothing to say when some crazy redhead starts pulling out random dance moves in the middle of the Barnes and Noble cafe) but, hey, life went on.
As of now, it’s been weeks without writing. Weeks without really reading. Weeks without giving my mind the sustenance it needs for my vocabulary to work, my spoken words to flow smoothly and my mind to stay on track during conversations. My imagination has been flowing with ideas but I’ve done nothing with them.
Life is hard. Being a mom is hard. Being a wife is hard. Living up to people’s expectations is uber hard. But not living up to people’s expectations is heart wrenching and debilitating. When people are so disappointed with you because you are who you are, life changes and personalities change. It’s not like cares and hopes and desires are tossed to the wind. No, they’re just placed gently down and aside and they start to get buried in the hundreds of feelings running your mind; buried deeper and deeper to the point where you can hear your cares and hopes and desires but you can’t see them anymore. You know they’re there but the energy to do something about them is overwhelmed by life and wanting to be good enough for everyone you care about.
I’ve reached the point now where I’m realizing how far in that dark pool I really am. Life has thrown things at me and I’m done being hit. I’m catching my problems in the air and shattering them on the ground. (I like it. ANOTHER!) I’m starting to regather my thoughts and dust off my hopes and desires. It’s a pretty slow process but they’re rising to the surface and not alone. Forgotten desires and cares from years ago are joining those most recent. I’m remembering wishes I’d made when I was fifteen. Dreams I had when I just entered high school.
I am a writer and have always been. It’s not something I chose but something I was born with. I may not be amazing or famous or a total pro at it but it’s what keep my gears spinning and my heart pumping. I can feel blood flow through my hands when I write and type and that reminds me that I’m alive and I’m not going to waste my breathes trying to please everyone out there who doesn’t understand it. (Honestly, though…what’s not to understand? Our lives are run by words – words spoken, words read. Words are amazing.) Words soothe. They keep your brain active and engaged and running in a way that nothing else does.Reading increases memory and analytical thinking skills. C’mon guys! SCIENCE.
So, I write a book. Someone picks up that book and reads it. Their brain is working to understand the words I wrote. My words are making someone’s brain change. That is amazing and empowering.
Now tell me you don’t understand why I like to write! Now tell me my love of writing is useless and a waste of time. Tell me my head is in the clouds because BY GOD, it IS in the clouds and I’m doing something with it!
Being sad and angry is not worth losing sight of things you/I care about. Your/My ability to write is not just an ability. It’s a blessing to anyone who picks up your/my story or poem or whatever you/I write.
I’m not going to let anyone talk me down for wording. Talking someone down for using words is hypocrisy in the worst sense. They’re using words to do it. Duh.