So I’ll make this short— I’m blocked.
(Also… now might be a good time to say that this post probably won’t contain a single thought of value.)
I’ve had dry spells before, where I’ve stopped writing for a month or so, but it’s never been like this. I literally do not want to write. Ever. I know I should, and I try… sometimes. If I find the energy somewhere deep within me. But I lose interest, or I end up staring at the page blankly.
Welcome to the last three months of my life.
I’m constantly using school as an excuse to not write, but the truth is while school can be like a deathtrap that sucks away all vitality (stay in school, kids), it’s not always like that. It’s just my go-to excuse.
I know I need to get excited again. This is what I’m passionate about, right? This is what I want to do with my life! Why am I moping when there’s a perfectly good story tucked into a cold, dark corner of my laptop? I don’t know. I just don’t know.
I understand that writing is, like anything, hard work, and if you only write when you’re “inspired” or when it’s raining (my favorite writing weather), you’re never going to get anywhere. I’ve been told over and over again that you have to get into a habit of writing every day. I’ve been told since I first discovered that I might like to write that it’s not a hobby, it’s a lifestyle. And that all sounds very hypothetical and lovely until you actually have to do it.
And now I’m blocked.
The theatre student in me is screaming, “My whole existence is meaningless and the time has come to dye my hair and explore a new version of myself!!!!”
The English student in me is rationalizing the situation and chastising my fingers for typing multiple exclamation points when one is quite enough, thank you.
My question is, am I not committed enough, am I not passionate enough, am I not writer-y enough for this job? Do professional writers have these feelings, too? Or is it the choice to keep writing that actually makes you a writer?
Well… a vent is not complete until it has been posted on the Internet. So here. Knock yourself out. Laugh at my pain. Tell yourself how glad you are that you are not me. Be joyful. I’ll be here. Giving you the virtual stink-eye like an old lady who lives with her cats.
JUST GET OFF MY LAWN.