“There was a time when I understood exactly what it meant to be writing. As though creativity was my only language, as though I was the only one who knew how to speak it.”
There are times when I look at where my life will be in a few years, and even though I’ve taken everything in as a headstrong individual; I’m afraid. Irrevocably afraid. I take pride in being an understanding person at times, for there are so much things that I can overlook. I’m not sure I know how to deal with the way I’m feeling now. I’m at the point in my life where I’ve managed to find happiness, and after all this time, that is one thing I’m holding onto for dear life. I feel as though I still have so much growing to do, and there’s much I’m not ready to part with.
Take NaNoWriMo. I’ve been devoted to this novel, but not as much as I would’ve liked. I feel as though I’ve fallen out of love with all the things that made me a writer, and that terrifies me. I know that I can blame it on a lack of inspiration, that maybe there is something that could be missing. But it was when I read the above poem that I realized: things may have changed, things may have took turns I’ve never expected, but it is time to find new inspiration. It is time to reinvent the way I dwell on my ideas. Writing is an art form, and its unmistakably something I know I wouldn’t be able to survive without. As I frantically try to finish before the deadline, as I try to stumble upon new ideas to make this story worth reading, I need to remember why I started doing this in the first place. My passion for writing has been rooted in love and detriment for as long as I could remember, but my capabilities have stretched so much farther.
It is time to welcome that, with open arms.