I’m going to get this out of the way — I’m a writer who no longer enjoys writing.

Seems kind of odd from a person who is starting to blog on his life and experiences, huh? Let me try and explain a little.

I am a writer. I have been for as long as I can remember and I always will be. What started off as a hobby at a very young age has done things for me and taken me places that I never thought I would be able to go. I’ve met big-name celebrities, attended parties hosted by top Fortune 500 companies, and became part of a cutting-edge industry before I was even allowed to legally drink.

For someone who wants to make writing a career, I couldn’t have asked for more.

But that’s where my happiness in writing ends. One of the things I found throughout my decade-long career as a journalist/writer/editor is that my love of writing was entrenched more as a hobby than a career. When you put strict deadlines and other requirements on any hobby — no matter how much you enjoy it — it isn’t fun anymore.

Trust me — I used to review video games for a living. These days, I have no desire to even play a video game.

One of the things that I told myself I would do once I started my current job — a job outside of the journalism industry, where I’ve been for nearly four years — is that I would make writing a hobby again. I would find time to craft beautifully written narratives and use my somewhat average writing abilities to write something that would make the world a better place.

Almost four years later, that hasn’t happened. And it’s not for a lack of effort!

Wait, actually, it is for a complete and utter lack of effort. One thing I didn’t realize was how much creativity that writing — as a job — sucked from me. My desire to sit in front of a computer and pour my heart out was gone. The words were there but, for once, the desire was not. And when your heart isn’t in something, there’s no use in trying.

Part of that could be because I made writing as a career at a much younger age than most people should. I started writing professionally at the age of 14. By 16, I was getting paid for every article I wrote. Before I’d even started college, I had a job with a 250,000 circulation magazine based in Los Angeles that paid very well. By 22, my career had taken a slight detour (that sounds like a negative, but it really isn’t — I got married to the love of my life) and shortly after I became assistant editor at a Florida newspaper, where I stayed for five years. During this time, in addition to my duties there, I continued freelancing on the side.

I have no clue how many stories I wrote during that time period. Honestly, I probably don’t want to know.

I feel like everyone has a certain amount of words available to them for use in a lifetime. How many of mine were wasted writing something that had no relevance to anyone or anything?