100 Naked Words
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100 Naked Words

I’ll be back

It’s happened.

Since I’ve started this experiment of writing and posting every day, on January 1st, where so many things start, not a day has gone by where I didn’t have one, two, even three texts ready to post, and more ideas than I could possibly used tumbling around in my head. Not very good ideas most of the time, but just that I had them, that they were there, that I could write them down and more would come, was no small miracle for me.

I’ve always loved writing, and I’ve always struggled with writing. How much of it I should do, how many words or pages or chapters. What I should write, novels, fan fiction (the horror!), essays? How much writing do you have to do to call yourself a writer? How bad should I feel if I choose to watch tv over writing?

So, obviously, I thought that forcing myself to write, and not only there, to expose my writing publicly every day, was going to be utter torture. But instead of feeling constrained, I’ve felt more free. Instead of worrying more, I’m happier, calmer. I’m just writing.

I’ve become used to being full of words, images, moments. Everything could be the inspiration for a little text, a post: a delicious cup of tea, a quite cigarette on my balcony, a film I watched, a conversation with my boyfriend. Also, the news.

Today the ideas finally stopped flowing. There’s still news, oh such a lot of them, much more than I can bear. My boyfriend still has a lovely smile, tea is still delicious, and the smoke from my cigarette floats up into the damp grey January day just as poetically as it did yesterday. But none of this seems to coalesce, I don’t feel the urge or the inner balance to sit down and write any of it down.

Today there are no glowing images behind my eyes, just tiredness.

Today there’s no courage, no hope. Just fear. And naked fear doesn’t lend itself well to writing.

So this is all I have. Today, I am too afraid, and too tired to write.

But I also have the other 30 days, like a steady bulwark behind me. These days, they won’t let me fall. Tomorrow is a new day, a day that starts with a one. I like those.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back.




Est. May 2016. 100 vulnerable words, one day at a time. Every day.

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Anna Maria Ballester

Anna Maria Ballester

real reader, fake librarian, writer of stuff, fangirl, social media enthusiast, erratic duster of shelves

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