I haven’t felt creative lately. I mean I’ve been writing for my uni work, sure, and it is flowing more or less when I sit with it but I don’t feel very engaged. Excited? Sure? I don’t feel the urge to write my novels. I don’t feel excited for uni to finish so I can get writing in my other worlds. I just don’t feel good about my writing lately. I don’t feel like my friend, who is dying inside because she is not yet published living out her author dreams.
I used to have author dreams. I used to drive myself mad because my ideas came so fast and exhilarating that I couldn’t keep up. I used to daydream interviews on tv about my craft and inspiration. I used to dream of my fans and get teary eyed. Where has that dream gone? That person? What if I never get like that again? What if my passion for writing it gone forever and I just write now out of habit and because I have some trusted notion that it’s who I am? Or worse that it will one day save my life and take all my struggles away?
I’m scared. I’m scared that all I am is a writer who can’t write; who can’t make it as a writer. And I’m scared that I’m not a writer at all anymore and therefore who the fuck am I now? What do I do? What am I if not this?
Maybe it’s the lack of connection to myself lately. The distracted yoga sessions. Never meditating anymore. Barely ever journaling. Mindless walks. Or forced walks. Gossip and negativity and upset from the people around me at work. The pressures and restrictions that comes from university guidelines and deadlines. Less connection to the things I brought into my life to help balance me out years before. Maybe I’ve been coasting more than I used to. Living on autopilot without realising it?
As sad as it is, and I always hate it when people believe this, but maybe it’s because I’ve generally been happy lately. They say that tortured artists are the great ones. The ones who stay up into the dead of night with an idea and a quill tip dripping with their blood.
I’m not depressed anymore. I don’t get as many low moods, since moving house like we have wanted to do for a year. No stress because I’ve pushed aside the wedding. Our relationship is good. I’m doing well at university. I don’t hate my job and I got another job offer that brought me some confidence. Spring is on its way, my favourite time of year. We have plans for our near future that feel exciting. Life is good, so maybe my art is not. It’s suffering because I’m living more outside of myself than inside of myself. Less introspection means less exploration and creativity?
I hate that. And I hope it’s not true. But maybe the reason I wrote so much before was because I was escaping my circumstances by retreating inwards. By writing, I am in control. The pen is my key to unlocking possibilities I just didn’t have in real life at the time. I felt trapped and limited in my reality, so I crafted a alternative. I gave my characters what I didn’t have: the power and magic to do and be whatever they desired. I begged and begged for that in my younger years. Maybe that’s the difference…
I hope when things clear away, with less stress, overthinking, random shiz, and when uni even steps aside that what is left is my excitement to write. Not even to write necessarily but just the ideas, the worlds, the magic, the themes, the scenes, the emotions. The things that boil over and spill out of me in troves. I want to be a vessel for it all, again. A hub of overcrowded noise where worlds collide and exchange possibilities. I want it back. I don’t want to lose this part of me. That part that feels like the electricity that brought Frankenstein’s monster to life.
I want to be brought to life