Why I Haven’t Been Writing
A change of scenery doesn’t always mean a change in perspective
I just moved to Brooklyn last week.
It was a transition I’d been dreaming of for quite some time; hoping, wishing, searching for a way out of the existential crisis I’d been experiencing for the past two years. It’s been a challenge, a rough go-at-it, as all change is want to be. And because of this, I haven’t been writing.
I stopped writing — anything new, at least — about a month ago, because I was stuck on a piece I couldn’t finish (still haven’t). It was a piece on my family, and the recent deaths of our patriarch and matriarch that have crippled us all during this pandemic.
You would think that, because of these tragedies, I would be inspired to write — I finally had something worthwhile to write about, you know — but I couldn’t. I couldn’t seem to find the words anymore; the ability to express how I was feeling at any given moment. And it crippled me even more than my grandparent’s death; I was lost to my mind, my intellect, the ability to sit down at the blank page and bleed my heart and soul onto the canvas.
So I stopped, thinking that if I slowed down it would come in time. Like fairies coming in the night to sprinkle their magic inspiration dust on us while we sleep — as if. But…
