Tag: Writing

Why? Why do I often think to write at this time of year? Why does it feel like I only write at tumultuous parts of life?

I think about writing all of the time. Constantly, actually. Except there is a narrative in my mind telling me that I haven’t anything to say.

Nothing worth reading, so nothing worth writing. That is a lie, though. My mind is not playing nice.

Writing is an art. With art, I get better the more I do it. If I don’t put time into this, how can I expect to gain confidence and consistency? Too though, I need a muse, inspiration if you will.

Maybe just something, however small, each day, and I’ll be able to get the flow back. I miss the rhythm of reading the words back to myself. I feel the need to fall in love again with this art form of mine that has helped me through every single transition in my life.

I’m in a rut. With writing, and with everyday life. I’ve gotten stuck in thinking that I am physically trapped here, home. And while it isn’t easy getting out, it’s possible. And the more I do that, the more inspiration I am bound to find!

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At It Again

Quiet would be one word to describe the last few months of my writing.

Isolated, fearful, and tired would be further descriptive. Of my words, and my soul.

While it can appear that writers are raw and open, honest at the risk of oversharing, I find that that I hide behind my written words. In this medium I have time as well as resources to finesse and edit each point. Filter it in a way that you see just what I want you to.

Extending that thought, I want you to like what you read. Dare I say I want you to love it. Love me. To write in that way when I feel nowhere near likeable, let alone loveable, is a boldface lie. And that, I can’t do.

I’ve shrunken down in size over these last several months. I’ve outsourced a lot of what I typically do. I’ve stopped doing anything extra. From the minute I wake up to the minute the boys heads hit their pillows I’m in survival mode. What can I do and what can I say in order to make the next moment go smoothly, and the next, and the next. Somedays I feel like I have done as best I could, others I am ashamed and disappointed in myself.

The thought of writing, at least writing anything real, has felt out of reach, overwhelming. This takes time, time I don’t have, or time I have chosen not to dedicate to this part of my life. I’ve recently thought though that this is the part that makes me feel more me. Without a doubt I need more of that.

So, hello old friends. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed the musical sound of the keyboard, the rhythm and flow of these words, the lightness that inevitably comes from putting it all together and setting it free.

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The Search for Words

To be a writer and to be unable to put words to something is unfathomable.

It’s like dying of thirst whilst being surrounded by a sea of saltwater.

It’s like being enveloped in flames only to be doused by even more gasoline.

To have a feeling that I can scarcely form a thought around, let alone polish it into a perfectly posed prose, that is profound.

It’s elusiveness makes it all the more alluring.

I’ll take the thirst.

I’ll keep the fire smoldering.

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