I don’t know how to not be a writer. I don’t know how to let thoughts and feelings drift by without trying to craft them into beautiful passages. I don’t know how to experience a dream or fleeting memory without capturing it and preserving it in amber metaphor. Worse, I don’t know how to be okay with not creating; I don’t know how to not tear at my hair, to not beat my breast, to not whip my back bloody in penance for every unwritten sentence. When the words won’t come I can’t just let them go, I keep scrabbling in the dust until I’m bruised and bloody and have nothing to show for my struggles. I don’t know how to not be a writer. I don’t know how to give up on this thing that tears me to pieces. I don’t know how to stop. I don’t even know how to want to know how to stop. But it’s killing me.
Oh no! Why is writing killing you?
The last year or two it’s just been so hard to write anything, even just a few sentences. Everything I’ve written has been like pulling teeth to complete, but I hate not writing at all even more. u_u
Awww that really sucks. I can’t imagine not writing! The guilt must be overwhelming!
So sorry for your writing troubles :( This fragment spoke to me so much. I had a really bad year and a half period where I couldn’t write. If I may offer some friendly advice, don’t pressure yourself to create and do different creative things you enjoy, like drawing or cooking or video editing or music or anything. If it’s any consolation, this fragment is lovely work. <3
I’m so sorry I didn’t respond to this sooner – I’ve kinda been avoiding even thinking about this blog. But your words were very kind, and very much appreciated. Thank you, truly. ♥️