Why I stopped writing in the first place
Well, I keep coming back to this blog because its unfinished business. I also don’t have the privilege of saying how great my self discipline for writing is. I’m never fully committed, to ANYTHING. What a shame huh?
When I was younger I wanted to be a writer. How did I get this silly idea? Actually I spent hours reading library books. My summers were always rich and full of wild adventures. However, they were also a little lonely. Lonely in the sense that all the exciting stuff happened in my head. In my daydreams, in my books. Lonely because I couldn’t share those blissful moments with anyone but the grass I laid on or with the carpet floor. I grew to be such a melancholic child and later angsty teenager. Later I would begin to feel so desperately lonely that I started to write as often as I read. Soon I stopped living in the slim young adult fiction world, instead I began creating my own realities in my journals. I started creating little poems, short stories. First about my home life. Then about my yearning to feel connected to another human being. I would write about my encounters with mysterious boys who as it turns out would turn out to be as equally lonely, also in need to be understood. Ha. The power of imagination. Somewhere along the way I began meeting those boys, and I would grow yet again…but this time I would grow to believe that I no longer needed to read or write like before. Books and words stopped being the air I breathed. Funny, I saved my breathe for all those boys who seemed to come out of my stories. I saved all my words to whisper how I felt about them. I wrote poetry for them, about us, but only after the breakups. They became forbidden stories, simply written to lessen the hurt. How clever of me to write my future.
So why did I allow this to happen? And was it necessarily a bad thing? I don’t know the answer to that exactly, except that I let a flame go out somewhere deep inside me. For too long I’ve let others keep me comfortable with their warmth that I forgot how create heat from within myself. How this happened I have no idea. Wait, yes I do. I envisioned for so long what would make me happy. I would read about it. I would write about it. I would daydream…and when my opportunity came to make it a reality outside of my head, outside of mere stories I created…holy crap I didn’t hesitate to go from zero to one hundred. I knew what happiness looked like, I just wanted to learn what it felt like. Since I was a child, I read about what it was supposed to feel like to be in love. In love with another person. It was such a reoccurring theme in those adult fiction novels. Naturally, I knew what to look for. Soon it became so easy to live in those moments. Live for those moments…
But at my age, jaded and burned out from dating since I was 15 years old, tired of traveling far and wide to get a glimpse of ecstasy…well I just need a change in perspective, a new philosophy and shift in priorities. I want to start a fire and burn the landscape of my mind. I want rebirth. I want to stay warm from within. I want to rewrite my future. I want to discover a million ways to be happy. So that way, when I see those opportunities, I’ll know that I’m living them and not simply imagining them. If I become this so called writer in the process, then I’ll consider myself one lucky gal.