It has been nearly eight months since I’ve written anything of substance (and longer than that if you don’t count fragments). I would love to blame this recent (and more or less constant) bought of physical illness or too much overtime or my mental state in general but that feels dishonest.
I’ve no pity (I’ve never had pity) for people who say “I want to write—but!” because bookshelves are lined with stories written by others who had it worse. If you want to write, you write.*
If you don’t write… can’t bring yourself to write… stop writing and don’t fucking need it in a soul-deep kind of way… maybe you should stop trying to claim an “interesting” yet ill-fitting persona and recognize the obvious?
All this to say that I really don’t know anymore. I am flailing and sinking and I have no direction. Work is in flux,** relationships are in flux,*** I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up and I’m almost 30 ffs.****
So I am done with this whole “I am a writer” thing. At least for a little while. It’s not you, Writing, it’s me. It’s always been me.
With respect for the writers (and scorn for fakers),
*Modern scribes don’t even need “money and a room of one’s own” for godsake. It is easy. (And it is hard! (That’s a different post.))
**Call centers, amirite? One of the contracts with our client is changing so there’s not as much overtime available, hours of operation are being “reevaluated” and my entire department might be shut down within the next few weeks (I’ve been assured I won’t be fired, just reassigned elsewhere (yay, more training?)).
***It’s difficult for me to make friends. I mean, I get along with people very well on a surface level but finding an actual connection is rare, even more so irl. And when those people move away it fucks with me.
****Annual birthday angst post coming next month. I’m excited. :D