Too late to start again?
The best I can figure it, the last time I wrote anything was early 2017.
2017.
TWO. THOUSAND. SEVENTEEN!
- 2017 – Last time I finished a story
- 2017 – Last time I wrote a damn word
- 2018 – Last time I beta read someone else’s work
- 2018 – Last time I was published
Jebus. Fuppin’. Christ.
You think lethargy and apathy are things that would sneak up on you, I mean come on – they’re idol and passive, how can they take you by surprise? I think that’s because most people want to assume these things change by degrees. You didn’t give up, you just got a little slower, or a tad busier, or a bit more uninterested day by day, for years, until…whoops, where did that pesky dream go?
But, at least for me, it was sudden – like a freak car accident that abruptly stops a sporting career. Except I don’t have an insane story to bust out at parties and cool scars to show for it. The thing that stopped me was sudden and sneaky – like a ninja with a vested interested in leaving me a fat, useless blob content with no dream and an ever expanding list of distractions from ever attempting to get back on the horse.
I used to write almost every day, I used to have notepads littered around the house with unintelligible notes and half spun ideas that made sense to nobody but the voices inside my head. I used to beg people to let me red pen their stories, because it felt great honing my craft while also learning from the best (a sneak preview of their current WIP didn’t hurt either). I couldn’t tune out conversations in the office, or on public transport, or in a crowded supermarket (even if I tried, which I rarely did) because they were a goldmine for dialogue and inspiration and those WTF moments that only real life situations can bring to the table.
Okay, so the pandemic didn’t help – I didn’t have the eavesdropping potential and writing cons were certainly off the table, but this all started BEFORE that, so what the hell is it stopping me?
It might be the meds I’m on for [insert mental health issues here], the timeline would suggest so, but doctors, and people on similar meds assure me otherwise. And if that’s the reason, why didn’t a flourish of creativity come rushing back during the times I was a naughty patient and stopped taking my pills?
I can’t read books any more – my mind wanders within mere sentences and I need to check my phone, or walk around the kitchen, or peek out of the windows, or build some terrible D&D terrain with cardboard and fingermeltingly hot glue. There’s an inability to get lost in a story any more, something is always gnawing at my brain for attention, and that something always wins. It’s not for want of more captivating stories, I’ve tried new, old, comforting, shock value…the ability to stay in the moment is simply gone.
I hate social media nowadays (or should I say more so nowadays), so perhaps a disconnect from my fellow writers has wrung me of hope from seeing them writing every day and the successes that come from sticking with it? They say I’m always welcome in the community, that I can never really leave (come play with us…forever), but I still feel more of an outsider than ever. Simple imposter syndrome doesn’t cover it any more, I feel like a stowaway on a ship begging for scraps whilst somehow also pretending to be a fully functioning member of the crew.
But I’m here. I’m updating my blog theme to the most basic one that suits my requirements. I balked at my annual website bill, but I still paid it like I did the last five years or so I didn’t use it. I’m writing yet another woe is me post for two comments and a “Have you tried…” message on FB if I’m lucky.
So that’s some words.
Keep it up, Steven.