…but really.

Do me a favor. Look through the last five or so posts before this one. That spans, what, two or three months? And how many times in those posts did I say that I was planning to post more often and try to get a writing schedule happening?

Not that it was a promise or anything like that, but I have not been true to my word.

I can’t honestly say I know why. It’s one of those spiraling lacks of productivity wherein you’ve climbed down into a hole of Netflix and have to force yourself to get any real work done. There are many reasons why I haven’t been writing very much, and yet there is no reason at all. The truth is, the last time I was regularly writing was probably ten or so years ago. To explain why I’ve neglected the one thing I would say I NEED to do with my life, I would have to take you on a long and winding journey and I can’t guarantee we would get to the end. Perhaps, later, I will try to give the full explanation. For now, I’ll simplify:

Life.

I suppose I was not actually prepared to handle how hard life actually is. And, maybe, how hard writing actually is. When I was very young and discovering my passion for writing, words just flowed, almost all the time, and if I sat down to write it was just the easiest thing ever. Slowly, I was introduced to the revision process, and then I started to grasp that being a writer for real is actually not so easy. Not that it should be, but that, combined with several of the turns life took, made it all feel like more effort than it was worth.

This, like all other attempts to provide an explanation for my lack of productivity, does not fully explain what goes on in my brain and why motivation is so hard to come by. There are things I’m sure I’ll never be able to convey so that someone else will understand what I’m talking about.

I really hate to feel like “I’m writing because other people said I should,” but currently, many people’s comments that I should be writing are coinciding with my own feelings and intentions. The most important thing to do is “just write.” NOT when you have time or after you win the lottery and you don’t have to worry about money. No qualifiers: Always. Write. This is basically what it means to be a writer.

I think that I should try to write out the full story of me losing my inspiration and trying for years to find it, and it can be part of the “working through” series I was planning to start. Which I still want to write, of course, but who has time for that? (That’s ironic, get it?) It might be useful for me to get all that out, and useful for someone else who might struggle in the same way with their creative endeavors.

Writing often is a step toward living life the way I want to. So why the hell wouldn’t I just start?

 

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