Over the last few weeks I have been struggling to write. I will fully admit that my only saving grace was that I always have a few blog posts on standby in case something comes up and I don’t have the time to write. Yet, in this circumstance, it was not that I didn’t have time, or that something stopped me from writing, but rather, I didn’t know what to write.
Last week for Writing Wednesdays, I did what I normally do. I went to the library, I found a small corner to set up in, and then I opened my tablet. I went to my blog website, and I just sat there. Nothing came to mind. I didn’t know what to write. Thinking I needed to try something different, I opened up my novel, to the current chapter I was working on and reread what I had written last time. Okay, I thought to myself. I adjusted myself, put my hands over the keyboard.. and again nothing. No energy, no desire, no motivation to write. Try something else I told myself. Opening my writing prompt book, I did a few entries. I wrote something, but I didn’t feel invested. Maybe next week would be better, I told myself as I packed up my stuff. At least you went to the library and wrote something.
True. I kept the promise to myself, even if I didn’t feel like I could write. This week, Writing Wednesday rolled around and I didn’t go to the library. I was too tired, too run down and too blah from the week to go out in the evening. I’ll do my writing from home I told myself. I went home after work. I unpacked my writing stuff, set myself up to write and again nothing. Now, I was frustrated. I was annoyed with my self and the negative self-talk began. Yet, it didn’t matter. I just didn’t have the headspace. Tomorrow I thought as I crawled into bed that night. Next day, same thing.
Today, I talked to my friend about it. I talked about the writer’s block I felt that I was having the last few weeks. How I felt unmotivated, uninteresting and just not wanting to do any writing. That I didn’t want to write my blog posts because I no longer had any interesting topics. That I didn’t want to work on my book because the stuff I was writing about was hard. That I was too tired, too overworked, too insecure. Excuse after excuse after excuse.
“Why have you stopped showing up for yourself?” she asked. And she was right.
I write to heal. I write to process my shit. I write as a way to share what’s happening in my life, any new ideas I have and things that I have learned. I write to give myself an outlet for the ongoing thoughts running through my mind. I write because it brings me joy and a sense of satisfaction. I write for fun, and for others and most important of all, for me.
So, who care’s what I write? Who cares when I write or how much I write as long as I show up. That I continue to keep my promise to myself that every week I will write something. It doesn’t matter if someone reads it. It doesn’t matter if it is good or worth while. It is the fact that I am doing it for me. Doing it to keep myself grounded, to speak my inner voice and to continue to allow myself the space and time to heal.
Writers block may happen to all of us but it shouldn’t mean that we stop writing…
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