I feel like I have lost my writing gene.
I sit down to write and the words stumble over themselves instead of flowing the way I want them to.
I look at my life – in all its easygoing simplicity – and I wonder if I don’t have enough of a story to tell. I read so many great pieces and the stories that fuel them: love and loss and intimacy. And right now, I don’t really have those stories in me. I read sentences that are so beautifully composed, they stay with me all day. And right now, I don’t think I have those sentences in me. I marvel at the stacks of published books at the store, the pages upon pages in my magazines, the endless world of blogs…
And I just want to look at pretty pictures of Kate Moss.
Creativity is a funny thing and when you have a public outlet such as this one, it becomes even more complicated. What is worth putting out there in the world and what isn’t? What do your readers care about and how does it align with what you care about? Who are the people reading and how does that censor your story (hi mom!)? What does one do when their creative outlet is writing? And they are blocked.
I think you write.
I think you stumble over those words and take an hour to hit publish, second-guessing every sentence.
I think you forget about what others think and put it out there anyways.
You look for great stories in the every day, even if they are ordinary to everyone but you.
You practice, you stretch, you try once more.
And somehow, some way, you hope it will find you again.