I can’t seem to write.
now, I know this is a temporary state of affairs. last week I whipped out a 5,000 word essay, and I wrote a bit the week before that. so, chances are, I will be writing again soon. but today I have no motivation, can’t find even a thread of it. I forced myself and wrote a grand total of 254 words today, 251 of which will probably be edited away later. I don’t want to write, I have nothing to say, I no longer wish to be a writer, I’m looking for a new career, a new passion, something to sweep me out of this abyss I’m in and help me build new dreams.
I don’t like being in this place. I’m bored and grumpy and antsy and would rather do my physical therapy exercises than write. instead of journaling, I took the dog for a walk. instead of doing more research, I ate. (even as I type this, I’m thinking of eating again.) I am ready to throw my dream of being a published, prolific, professional, prosperous author out the window and go back to school . . . maybe I’ll study nursing. or dentistry. or accounting.
the good news is that, based on experience, this slump won’t last long. I tend to slump for short periods of time, then bounce back to being my passionate writer self quite quickly. I am a writer through and through, heart and soul, pen and paper. I can no more walk away from it than I can be a natural redhead. it’s ingrained in who I am, in my dna, in every cell in every part of my body (including those parts that are still recovering from that accident that led me to read all that no-brainer fiction.)
but today, this evening, I reside in a slump. it’s gray and dreary and deep, and something far below is trying to grab my toe and pull me even further down. I type away in an effort to resist this pull, but I’m not certain it will work. I own not a single iota of creativity, I have nothing to say, all of my projects will wither on their vines.
come tomorrow, I expect things will be different . . . because they always are. I will go to bed tonight and ask for a reconnection with my heart, with my soul, with the pen and paper I so dearly love. the prince of sleep will send me colorful dreams that will stimulate what is today lying dormant, and upon waking I will once again have the desire to write, to create, to find inspiration everywhere I turn.
I accept my slump this evening—moments like this are part of everyone’s lives—but will banish it tomorrow. because I am a creator, and like every artist out there, I have no choice but to do what I do, because it is who I am. not a redhead, but absolutely, a writer.