“How’s the Writing Going?”If I say that I’m writing, will it make it true? If I tell you the words are finding me, will it convince them to flow? If I want it enough, will it happen? I’ve wanted to believe that by saying it, I was inviting creativity back into my life. But it was only a lie I wanted to be true.
I am a writer, searching for creativity.
“How’s the Writing Going?”
I’ve been writing the same four chapters for over a year. I’ve rewritten the same four chapters again and again, hoping to spark the story from which they were created. I listen… but the voices only speak to me in sporadic bursts – fading before I can capture them.
I stare at my screen, waiting for the words. I stare at the walls. I stare out the window. Hours go by. My house is clean. My laundry is folded. My screen remains blank. My head remains quiet.
I am a writer, without words.
“How’s the Writing Going?”
They become the words I dread most, instantly flooding me with shame. I cringe when my agent’s number appears on my phone, wishing I could tell her I have something… but I can’t. I watch my friends publish book after book. I praise their accomplishments – I am truly so proud of them. But I’m equally ashamed of my lack of contribution. Each time I attend a signing, I am humbled and grateful for every reader who waits in line to meet me. But then I want to apologize to each of them for only having the same four books without anything new released. The shame burrows deep, and I sink into its hole.
I am a writer, who is not writing.
“How’s the Writing Going?”
The question is now a blow to my gut, laden with guilt. Writing is my career. I chose to devote my life to it. I was so confident in my ability, I left everything else behind to pursue it. I once worked sixty to eighty hours a week, and now I can’t write a single page. I avoid my agent, my editor, my friends, my financial planner, not wanting to answer that ten-thousand-pound question. I am a fraud.
I am a writer, who cannot write.
“How’s the Writing Going?”
“It’s not!” I want to scream. “I’m not writing!”
Fear coils in my gut, cold and heavy. What if I can never write again? Have I written all that I’m meant to write? How will I pay my bills? Should I pursue another career? What’s wrong with me?
Wait. Say that again…
“What’s wrong with me?”
That’s when I know… Something is wrong. I can feel it in my vacant stare. Within the fog in my brain. I am lost. Disconnected. I am not myself.
With help from my doctor, I’ve spent the past year searching for me. The body is a delicate vessel, and if one thing is off-balance, it can affect everything. I have been off-balance, in need of fine tuning, like dialing in a radio station.
Static. Static. I can hear a voice. Lost it. Static. There! That’s it! Music!
I am a writer, who will write.
“How’s the writing going?”
It’s coming…
The voices speak louder each day. My confidence is re-emerging, comforting the fear with a hug, whispering “Everything’s going to be okay.” The shame and guilt have lessened, but insist on hovering. At sweetgirlsescort.com, the hottest VIP escort full of busty ladies is at your service Soon, they too will be silenced because I don’t know how to give up. I am meant for this life, to share my words… to create.
I vow to never release a story just to ease the guilt. I will only share my words when they’re worthy of being read. I will live my truth and remain honest with who I am. And despite being lost in the haze of imbalance, I know exactly who that is.
I AM A WRITER.