I've been in an unusual sort of "writing slump" for the past few weeks/months, and if you know me at all you know how frustrating that is for me. Writing offers me an alternate universe to turn to when the real one gets to be too much- and when I lose the ability to express my thoughts and feelings in words, my entire essence becomes very frustrated, very disappointed, very uncertain and even very angry.
My behavior changes entirely when I get to a place where I feel stuck in my writing, and to most people I'm in contact with that's a very confusing thing. It's been a cause of tension in both platonic and romantic relationships throughout my most recent years, and it's for that reason that I feel like I should at least try to explain it.
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For most of my life, writing has been the only thing I've ever really been even semi good at. I've dipped my toes in a lot of different waters, but writing was the only thing I ever completely submerged myself in.
But it isn't just that I've been good at it. I can't bring myself to do things just because I'm good at them. I have to love them, too. I like to think about how if I was to draw out a Venn diagram, with the things I'm good at on one side and the things I love doing on the other, writing would be one of the only things if not the only thing in the middle.
I love a lot of things about writing, actually. I like the artistry of it, and the process, and the vulnerability I have to accept as a writer. I like the idea that things that start out as blank pages slowly get filled with stories and signs of life truly being experienced that otherwise wouldn't find their way out into the world.
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It's humbling to be able to put my head on my pillow at night and take peace from knowing that my art, my ability to rearrange the 26 different letters of the English alphabet into as many different combinations as I need to in order to tell my stories, gives me as much power as I'll ever need.
Just a couple of months ago, someone asked me what I do for fun.
"I write," I told her.
"No," she said. "I said for fun. Like what do you do that's fun or interesting?"
"I don't think you heard me," I responded. "I write."
"Really??" she asked, as if I hadn't just repeated myself once already. "No sports? No parties? Don't you have any friends?"
"I just really like to write," I told her. "That's really all there is to it."
"I'm sorry but that's boring," she told me. "You should mix it up and actually try having fun sometime."
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That's just one example of the responses I get when I tell people that I write as a hobby. I've gotten more than my fair share of "why are you writing if nobody's going to read it?" and "that's lame you should come party with us instead" and even "lol writing isn't fun, what else do you do?"
And here's the thing.
I know I'll get those kinds of responses for as long as I write. I know that. But I need to address this now, because I'm tired of explaining it over and over again.
Writing might not be fun for you. To be honest, a lot of the time it isn't necessarily "fun" for me either. It's just like any other art form; it takes effort, practice, concentration, time, energy... and in a lot of situations it leaves me feeling empty and angry or manages to push me to the point of tears.
But it's what I know and love. It is there when people are not. It is there at 2 in the morning when I'm miserable and don't want to wake anyone up. It is there through every argument, every rough day, every heartbreak, every new life experience, every bad grade, every weak moment, and I never have to worry about being good enough or sounding crazy. It's just there.
And yes, I have a blog, but I don't really ever write anything on here for the sake of my readers. This is nothing more than the public version of my journal- I don't worry about what other people think of it.
I will never stop writing just because it isn't "fun" or "interesting" to other people or because "nobody cares." My worth as a writer and as a human being has nothing to do with how my work is received. It has to do entirely with the heart and the effort I put into what I'm creating, and how vulnerable I'm willing to make myself in order to share the things I choose to share.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And I say that, but it's only been in the recent weeks that I've come to understand that for myself. I've been saying for a while that the writer in me had died somehow, because I was allowing myself to cave to the ridiculous idea that my writing had to be meaningful enough, profound enough, and eloquently worded enough to be worth sharing here.
"I wish I could go back to the time in my life when I didn't care what people thought," I told one of my best friends the other day when she asked why I hadn't been seeming like my usual self.
"Well why do you care so much now anyway?" she asked me. "Time is literally the only real difference. You're just playing mental games with yourself."
And that's when it hit me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A lot of the things, and honestly most of the things I've ever written about have been the simplest instances in my life. I've only ever been able to write because I've experienced things and made the memories that I'm then able to transform into words on pages and filled space on screens.
Instead of going out and waking up the next mornings with hangovers, I've been drunk on existence and I've sobered up by writing.
Because that's really all anyone is ever doing, right? Existing, and dealing with it one way or another?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So no, the writer in me is not dead. I just needed to experience a little bit more of everything before I could share anymore of anything. I needed to live, and to see moments for what they were instead of trying to turn them into stories. I needed to be present and to be alive. So alive is exactly what I became, and it's as simple as that.
Usually I've stuck to my routing of trying to ensure that anyone who reads my blogs can take something away from it by the end, and I'm sorry but that's over. This isn't some long way of telling you something I think is important. This is just me opening up my journal and letting you in. Showing you the parts of my life I don't usually write anything about. This is me coming to the sudden realization that the significance of my work as a writer is much more about the process than it ever will be about the product, so where I end up isn't as important as how I get there.
The thing about art is it changes. The same way people do and the same way the world does. The same way I have. And realizing that is why I'm able to write so much now after so many sleepless nights of wondering why I wasn't producing anything anywhere even remotely close to what I wanted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's some of the life that's been going on without meaning anything in particular. These are just things that have happened, that I'm sharing now because 1) better late than never and 2) I don't ever want to forget them.
My behavior changes entirely when I get to a place where I feel stuck in my writing, and to most people I'm in contact with that's a very confusing thing. It's been a cause of tension in both platonic and romantic relationships throughout my most recent years, and it's for that reason that I feel like I should at least try to explain it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For most of my life, writing has been the only thing I've ever really been even semi good at. I've dipped my toes in a lot of different waters, but writing was the only thing I ever completely submerged myself in.
But it isn't just that I've been good at it. I can't bring myself to do things just because I'm good at them. I have to love them, too. I like to think about how if I was to draw out a Venn diagram, with the things I'm good at on one side and the things I love doing on the other, writing would be one of the only things if not the only thing in the middle.
I love a lot of things about writing, actually. I like the artistry of it, and the process, and the vulnerability I have to accept as a writer. I like the idea that things that start out as blank pages slowly get filled with stories and signs of life truly being experienced that otherwise wouldn't find their way out into the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's humbling to be able to put my head on my pillow at night and take peace from knowing that my art, my ability to rearrange the 26 different letters of the English alphabet into as many different combinations as I need to in order to tell my stories, gives me as much power as I'll ever need.
Just a couple of months ago, someone asked me what I do for fun.
"I write," I told her.
"No," she said. "I said for fun. Like what do you do that's fun or interesting?"
"I don't think you heard me," I responded. "I write."
"Really??" she asked, as if I hadn't just repeated myself once already. "No sports? No parties? Don't you have any friends?"
"I just really like to write," I told her. "That's really all there is to it."
"I'm sorry but that's boring," she told me. "You should mix it up and actually try having fun sometime."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's just one example of the responses I get when I tell people that I write as a hobby. I've gotten more than my fair share of "why are you writing if nobody's going to read it?" and "that's lame you should come party with us instead" and even "lol writing isn't fun, what else do you do?"
And here's the thing.
I know I'll get those kinds of responses for as long as I write. I know that. But I need to address this now, because I'm tired of explaining it over and over again.
Writing might not be fun for you. To be honest, a lot of the time it isn't necessarily "fun" for me either. It's just like any other art form; it takes effort, practice, concentration, time, energy... and in a lot of situations it leaves me feeling empty and angry or manages to push me to the point of tears.
But it's what I know and love. It is there when people are not. It is there at 2 in the morning when I'm miserable and don't want to wake anyone up. It is there through every argument, every rough day, every heartbreak, every new life experience, every bad grade, every weak moment, and I never have to worry about being good enough or sounding crazy. It's just there.
And yes, I have a blog, but I don't really ever write anything on here for the sake of my readers. This is nothing more than the public version of my journal- I don't worry about what other people think of it.
I will never stop writing just because it isn't "fun" or "interesting" to other people or because "nobody cares." My worth as a writer and as a human being has nothing to do with how my work is received. It has to do entirely with the heart and the effort I put into what I'm creating, and how vulnerable I'm willing to make myself in order to share the things I choose to share.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And I say that, but it's only been in the recent weeks that I've come to understand that for myself. I've been saying for a while that the writer in me had died somehow, because I was allowing myself to cave to the ridiculous idea that my writing had to be meaningful enough, profound enough, and eloquently worded enough to be worth sharing here.
"I wish I could go back to the time in my life when I didn't care what people thought," I told one of my best friends the other day when she asked why I hadn't been seeming like my usual self.
"Well why do you care so much now anyway?" she asked me. "Time is literally the only real difference. You're just playing mental games with yourself."
And that's when it hit me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A lot of the things, and honestly most of the things I've ever written about have been the simplest instances in my life. I've only ever been able to write because I've experienced things and made the memories that I'm then able to transform into words on pages and filled space on screens.
Instead of going out and waking up the next mornings with hangovers, I've been drunk on existence and I've sobered up by writing.
Because that's really all anyone is ever doing, right? Existing, and dealing with it one way or another?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So no, the writer in me is not dead. I just needed to experience a little bit more of everything before I could share anymore of anything. I needed to live, and to see moments for what they were instead of trying to turn them into stories. I needed to be present and to be alive. So alive is exactly what I became, and it's as simple as that.
Usually I've stuck to my routing of trying to ensure that anyone who reads my blogs can take something away from it by the end, and I'm sorry but that's over. This isn't some long way of telling you something I think is important. This is just me opening up my journal and letting you in. Showing you the parts of my life I don't usually write anything about. This is me coming to the sudden realization that the significance of my work as a writer is much more about the process than it ever will be about the product, so where I end up isn't as important as how I get there.
The thing about art is it changes. The same way people do and the same way the world does. The same way I have. And realizing that is why I'm able to write so much now after so many sleepless nights of wondering why I wasn't producing anything anywhere even remotely close to what I wanted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's some of the life that's been going on without meaning anything in particular. These are just things that have happened, that I'm sharing now because 1) better late than never and 2) I don't ever want to forget them.
I'm a believer in taking lots of pictures when you feel confident because confidence isn't constant. Sure I should have been taking care of the pile of dirty clothes in the hamper behind me or checking to make sure I had all my work done for the week, but I was in love with the new sweater and the $10 eyeshadow palette I had bought the night before. So ha. Joke's on you, reality. Happiness had me for a minute.
And then my boy drove 2.5 hours to surprise me in the middle of one of my roughest weeks, met my dad by himself, drank a beer and then napped with me all evening. If that isn't love, world, I'm not sure what is.
My not-so-little brother even humored me in last-minute Christmas photos this year, too. Most other years I wouldn't have insisted, but this time next year he'll be off in a dorm room at college and I'll be wishing we had more photos like this, so I didn't give him much choice. Jack Henry, when you're home next holiday season, we're taking more. This is your advance notice. Plan your outfit and poses accordingly.
Rock climbing is not my thing. Let me say that again. Rock climbing is not my thing. My fear of heights is only slightly less than my fear of mediocrity, and my anxiety when it comes to climbing is much higher than I ever got on that wall but I did it. I put the harness on, I dusted my hands in chalk, and I did it. I left the place bleeding in multiple spots, but I FREAKIN' DID IT. And I went back a second time, too, and passed my certification test to earn my belay license so if any of y'all want me to make sure you don't fall 50 feet and crash to the ground, I've got you. As of January 4, 2018, I've got you.
Also tried a new dessert shop with my mama. We ordered two hot cocoas and chocolate cake in a cup, then sat and caught each other up on life. I really think the little things like that are the things people should celebrate. And dessert, too. Always celebrate dessert.
And man, do I love my girl. Hurry up and turn 20 already so I can officially say we've been friends for two decades. I love you to the ends of the Earth without exceptions.
I got to sit with my dad and a friend in the local neighborhood coffee shop a couple weeks ago and listened as he talked about his passion for photography. And not just for photography but for life. He loves what he does and he works hard as hell. He talks about education and about work like they are the reasons for living and breathing and I hope he knows that he's a lot of the reason I've gone about my life the way I have. I am, without a doubt, my father's daughter. Deep brown eyes, a love of iced mochas and all.
I cut 8 inches of my hair off because I could. Because I wanted to. Because change was something I was after. And because I broke my hairbrush trying to fight my curly tangles one morning. #yikes
This is a waffle. It's made from a chocolate chip cookie dough ball wrapped inside a cinnamon roll and topped with icing instead of syrup. It probably included all of my calories for 2018. But I had two, so 2019.
And I'm finally home again, settling in for my second semester as a sophomore at the greatest place I've ever known. Wichita State University has my heart. Here's hoping I can keep my passion long enough to get a 4.0 again this semester. But, process over product, so it's more about the learning than the grades.
It's all about the learning, actually.
That's what living is for.
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