I once wrote in a journal of mine that “Happy people don’t write in journals”. I stand by this statement. I’ve only ever been able to write about my life when I couldn’t stand it. The worse my life was, the more devoted I was to recording my pain.
I have no idea if this is also applicable to my creative writing, all I know is I can’t get a single word out. I have at least one story idea, but no real motivation to write it right now. Any other stories I’ve previously had have fled to parts of my mind unknown, and seemingly unreachable.
I love writing.
It’s such am amazing feeling, weaving together words into something other people can actually experience.
But the thing about any artistry composed entirely of words is that they become real only through the unbridled and raw emotions that the author inserts into the narrative, echoes of their own emotional turmoil.
Maybe this is then the answer as to why I can find no ability to write.
I’ve lived through a variety of emotional lows and highs.
I’ve spent at least half a year in the throes of depression, and other months I’m happier than a baby with his favorite toy.
But when I sit and try to write I feel as dry as an unused ink well.
I feel, in every sense of the word, nothing.
I miss writing.