I am a writer. Or, I was. I don’t know if the act of writing makes me a writer or the former writing helps me hold onto the title. I don’t really know. But, I choose, regardless, to identify as a writer, even though I’m not writing.
I want to try to identify why I am lacking the passion I once held for the written word. Maybe it’s an offshoot of depression, but when I was a teen and depressed, some of my best poems were written. I’ve heard that depression can make one lose interest in what once held so much fuel for passionate flames. I’ve heard this…
…and it’s been literally years. Years and years and years. I used to long to write and, even when it was horrid, even when it was vapid, even when it was just an exercise in futility, still I would write. And those days are long gone.
I try to blame someone or something. As you can see, depression took the first hit. I figure it can take it. It is blamed for a lot of things, primarily because it is the cause of a lot of things. I recently realized that I have been depressed for literally years. I’m a functioning depressive. Or, I was. I have been fighting against it since the awareness came.
Today I was thinking about writing again and I even looked at a few contests and such to see if I could spike the inspiration meter just a smidge. But I didn’t find anything to launch from. I keep thinking about how Jack London wanted to be a writer and he made himself write 1,000 words every day, sick or not, and I thought pompously, “I could do that,”
And then the darker side of me immediately reminded me of my subpar talent and I thought, “Well, then, at least I’d be getting some practice and I’d be bound to grow and improve with the practice, right? Teaching Language Acquisition and writing 1,000 words a day would at least improve my grammar.” This is true, but negative me doesn’t agree.
Your not good enough, Negative would say and I would nod. Today I felt like it was clearly stated.
Julie, why aren’t you writing? Because I’m not good enough.
Julie, why aren’t you singing? Because I’m not good enough. (This is valid and far more embarrassing.)
Julie, why aren’t you drawing? Because I’m not good enough.
Julie, why aren’t you making more friends and connections? Because I’m not good enough.
I think this narrative has run itself ragged trying to keep up with all my dreams and aspirations. Or, at least, it did, once upon a time. It has had a significant break for the last few years. My dreams are few and far between…if they exist at all.
I can narrow my dreams and aspirations down to wanting to adopt children, not screw up horribly in work or life, and to love my doggies and have them love me. Health and family are there, too, of course, that the Lord would hold us all and I am acutely aware of His near return.
So near…
I feel that I want to write again. I actually haven’t felt this longing…well, this tickling of longing…to write in a very, very long time. It is rather promising…if I don’t let it slip away.
So, maybe I’ll use Jack London’s simple…not so simple, truly…1,000 words a day, no matter what, as my motivation. Good words, bad stories, mangled dreams, lost hopes…white pages and black type…so I can be a writer again.
Hephzibah 