They enjoyed reading my travel stories, they said. They wondered why I’ve left my travel bloginactive for months, and asked me if I ever thought of submitting any stories to the many blogs that accepts pieces by aspiring writers, who wants to “get their name out there”. I’ve gotten praises of my writing talent, and reminders to continue sharpening my craft. I’ve also gotten encouragements on never letting go of that childhood dream of becoming a best-selling novelist.

I ask myself the same question too — more frequently than other people do, actually. I have my reasons and excuses and I guess it’s about time I elaborate some of them.

So, I stopped writing because I got distracted. I mean, we live in an era of ultimate distraction. It’s incredibly easy to get ourselves distracted nowadays, and every single kind of distraction is available on a device we carry around in our pockets. I get distracted by the 2 blue ticks on the incoming message I very reluctantly have to reply. I get distracted by the so-called articles telling millenials to carpe-the-shit-out-of-that-diem. I get distracted by the Valencia filters and endless hashtags.

I got distracted by those things instead of that couple in the corner table of the coffee shop, who seems to have found their chemistry on their first date. I got distracted by the annoying pings of a Facebook message instead of that story idea about a girl being stranded in a deserted island and fleeing for her life. I mean, that one bright idea I thought of in the shower could have been the next biggest sci-fi-romance-thriller hit, but no, I got distracted by all the noises coming from my social media feed. Apparently, some prank went viral on Youtube and it’s imperative that I check it out and share it to the world (read: the 1,500+ Facebook friends I barely still talk to).

I stopped writing because somehow I got myself on the “flexible working hours” grind, which got me into the routine of coming in to work at 9am and leaving at 9pm. I come home, jump into bed and wrap my blanket around myself. After a crisis of confidence and multiple anxiety attacks, I figured my bed was a safe place. There’s nothing that can get to me here. It’s just me and the warmth of my comfortable bed.

I stopped writing because I succumbed to my severe anxiety. Somewhere along the road, I lost my voice. It used to be so dominant, now it is cowered to the corner, overpowered by my scrambling thoughts and insecurities. My voice felt so small, it could not compete. So, I guess it chose to stay there, cornered and alone.

But, the main thing is: I stopped writing because I actually never really did. I didn’t stop writing, I simply decided to stop writing for anyone else but myself. I stopped writing to have my name on a by-line, or to have it published on a Gen-Y blog. I stopped writing for the shares, the likes and the reposts. I stopped writing to create a favourable digital persona. I simply stopped writing for any other reasons than writing for myself.

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.

— Cyril Connolly

Yes, I realise the sheer irony of writing all this, then proceed on sharing it on a blog and subsequently on my social media. I really just wanted to explain myself to you, that’s all. Besides, truth be told, I wrote this more for myself; little do you know that I needed to explain this situation to myself more than I do to you all. I wrote this because I’ve been constantly asking myself why I stopped writing, and I couldn’t find the answer.

I think I’ve found it now, and I hope this clarifies everything.