I don’t quite understand what it is that drives me to write, but I have it. At all times during my day I will have various scenes playing out in my head. Many of them have no back story, and many more of them the characters I do not yet know, but they plague me at all times.
There will be plenty of times where I will speak aloud a scene or two or maybe just a small dialogue piece, in crowded areas this gets me some strange looks, but I shrug them off. Other times I will just laugh out loud for no apparent reason, ACTUALLY, there is a reason, you just can’t see it!
I never write these scenes as they are playing out, I know I should because they might fit into something one day or be tweaked to become something of their own. A big part of my day is spent attending classes or doing homework and if I stopped each time to write down what a character or characters are saying I would get nowhere in life. Not to mention that my notes would suffer horribly!
Over the past few years I have lost my writing-self. Meaning, I haven’t actually sat down to write anything nor has plots come bubbling to the surface for a potential project. This is what my blog was for. To help me get back into the habit of doing what I love. In the basic sense it has helped me to achieve just that.
I’ve been writing blogs on here and working on something more personal of my own off-screen. However, there is a pattern in myself that I have begun to notice.
SELF SABOTAGE! That’s right… I know what I want, what I need, but most of the time I get in my own way of grasping onto what it is I most desire. It’s this block that has become an automatic thing within me that I have no control over. I hate it.
This project I have been working on started off quite nicely, but now it has fizzled out. Nothing about the story to move it forward is showing itself to me. I just have no clue as how to continue and honestly I started the story with little information to begin with.
I haven’t had a new, ‘brilliant’ idea for a story in quite sometime and even my poetry has become non-existent. I’m just at a loss to understand it. The voices and the scenes never cease to exist within me, but yet I can not seem to place my pen upon my paper and let it bleed into something readable.
I’m beginning to wonder if my abilities as a writer have always just been an illusion; another lie I have told myself I can do because there is nothing else in the world I am good at. I am becoming impatient and more frustrated with myself by the day.
I am putting so much time and energy into writing most everything that comes to mind now and gambling my future away at a college I can’t even afford for something that dances just beyond my reach!
When I was younger I couldn’t put down my pencil for the thoughts that were flying so fast. Page after handwritten page I lay aside, happy with myself. But is that also the problem? Am I expecting too much out of my writing? Am I putting too much hope on what it should be and what it might someday become? Have I lost my childlike sense of nobility in the fact that writing was just something I did and not something I am?
This illusion of writing, of being a ‘good’ writer has over taken me and I feel that may be the problem. I have no idea how to step back and let writing over, take me once more and not have me try to rule over my writing.
Most of the time, well, all of the time I tend to over think things. That which should be simple and natural I make into the most complicated of affairs and that which is most complicated to others I pass through as a breeze. Writing used to be so simple!
Yes, I can get inspired by reading about other authors and writers talk of how it is something they will always do no matter what. How they will speak of fifty different drafts before they decide on the right one, how they just never gave up. I look up inspirational quotes until my eyes are burning from the stress, but NONE OF THAT MATTERS! None of it matters if I don’t feel it.
I have the urge to write, the want to. I have the characters speaking to me and speaking to each other, but do I still have the passion? I’d like to think so. I’d like to be able to answer that question with a “yes!”, but I haven’t seen or been the proof in a long time.
I honestly don’t know what to do and many times I’ve begun to wonder if school is the best thing for me. The time in my life when I was writing the most was when I hardly went to school or the times when I was traveling.
I have always felt England calling out to me. As a child, eight or nine, I always said I would live there. Maybe it’s still waiting for me. Waiting for me to figure this out and get my butt moving. My time in Colorado is the most I have spent truly writing.
I’m here at school trying to make friends, build a life, and worry about my course work, but honestly, school has never been the thing that has been any part of my happiness in life. What if I’m not meant to befriend people or put down any type of roots. I can feel my wanderlust so acutely.
However, with the one creative writing course I have taken so far I know I have so much more to learn about the subject! I have always been a terrible teacher for myself.
Why is my passion eluding me? Why is my only talent slipping away to hibernate? Has this all been an illusion I created for myself during a time when I belonged nowhere in the place I was during the start of my writing. What if I was meant to let go of it when I said goodbye to that horrible place?
I think these dark thoughts in times like this, but as soon as I ask the questions I KNOW what the answer is. NO! Writing is meant for me and I for it, but that still leaves the question of why has it chosen now to abandon me?