The Journey: Exciting or Bleak?
It has been quite a long time since I have found any shred of inspiration to write. Lack of conviction? Definitely. Lack of imagination? Likely. Lack of self confidence and awareness? Probable. The excuses are endless and I can feel them settling in the back of my mind, dragging me down like an anchor to the bottom of the sea. It is such a frustrating sensation to find yourself not only annoyed at yourself for evident laziness, but doubting yourself in what you are doing.
There are so many reasons that I could conjure up to continue this absolutely awful rut I am in with not writing. I need to find reasons to write.
I am a writer; writing is part of my being. If I am not writing, I am not finding myself.
Good enough reasoning? I think so. (Clever enough of a quote? I also think so too. I forgot how egotistical I can get with my writing. Such an interesting mindset to both be smug of your creation and to absolutely hate it.)
Okay, okay. I have a good enough reason to continue. So why does it seem so daunting to begin writing again? What I am so utterly afraid of that picking up a pen or opening a word document can seem so stressful?
Maybe I’m scared of being an adult author versus a teenager writer. Life is much more strenuous on the adult’s agenda. (At least for me. Gosh, life has not been easy since I’ve turned eighteen.)
Am I scared that I’m not good enough?
No, not necessarily. I am told by too many teachers and professors and friends on my skills. I’ve been told by too many English teachers to continue with writing to just let my abilities and passion sit.
Maybe I’m just scared of being at square one, trying to improve my writing once again and brainstorm some plot lines and meet some characters. It’s been far too long.
It’s now or never, and I refuse to be satisfied with never.