Lately I’ve found myself wanting to write, but not knowing what to write about. I want to sit down to the process of churning out a piece of work, connecting with the language and the story, and flying, such as what J.K. Rowling describes as the time when she’s halfway through a book and feeling swollen with energy for the project at hand. I read writing magazines, writing blogs, posts of bloggers who discuss the twisted fate of all the storytelling hopefuls. The problem I’ve been faced with is a lack of interest in the story I’ve been “working” on for the past four years. It’s not coming to fruition, and I think, for the time being, I’m not ready to write it. Sometimes I feel as though I’m not ready to write anything at all. I’m 22, don’t know much about life, and have a lot yet to learn. I often wonder what I have to say that could be important enough for someone to take the time to hear my voice.
Yet I feel the pull, the longing, the demands of my creative energies. My body beckons me to write something. Something important and meaningful. Part of my problem, I’m theorizing, is that I’ve spent so much energy and brainpower on trying to make this particular story work and it’s just not working. I believe with all of my heart that I was meant to write it, but I have this gnawing feeling that I need to let it go for now. I’ve denied that feeling for a long time, and maybe if I would’ve listened to my gut sooner I wouldn’t be going through all this despair over finally leaving it. It’s a story that sits on my heart and waits for me, and it’s hard to walk away from that kind of connection. It’s hard to walk away from a story that you believe with all of your being you were meant to write. I’m still not sure I’ll have the willpower to do it. I know there will be times that I get especially inspired and want to sit down and write about these characters, but the fact remains that they have been overwrought with relentless thinking, and I don’t think I’ll get the perspective I need on them and their lives and their situations until I’ve had some time away from them.
So, I’ve been sitting at work today reading writing magazines, writing blogs, and posts of bloggers who discuss the twisted fate of all the storytelling hopefuls wondering what I could work on next. My cousin suggested I write a story about myself. “But, I’m boring,” I told her. “That’s why you’ll fictionalize it,” she responded. That was her advice to me, and I have learned nothing if not every time I disregard Emily’s advice I always regret it later. The problem I’m facing with this new creative task is the inability to let go of my former project. It’s been like being in a relationship for four years that was never truly serious from the beginning, and while I’m more than ready for a stead, serious relationship with my writing, the former project is tugging me backward. “You know you won’t be able to resist me,” it breathes in my ear. “You know you’re too weak.” And that is exactly how I feel – weak, incompetent, small-minded. It is every writer’s greatest enemy.
I know the only way this will work is if I find the will inside myself to let go of all the crap I’ve been holding onto and let, not just this story, but myself go. I’ve heard it said that you must always die to self in order to get anything you care about done; you must sacrifice the emotions that have kept you away from what calls you, and heady emotions has been nothing if not my biggest downfall. It’s not that I’m dramatic and loud and wear my heart on my sleeve, it’s that I’ve always let my feelings burrow into every part of me – my heart, my mind, my soul – and have a mass takeover, so that I break down and eat a whole bag of potato chips in one sitting while watching reruns of my favorite cop shows, all the while that pull to write is desperately tugging at me, begging me not to give into myself.
This is where I leave you. For today. Henceforth, I will be on a journey to rekindle my passion for writing, telling stories, creating people who speak to me. I hope I find them. I really do miss their voices.
