Who Am I If Not a Writer?
I don't want to be the person with a child who mentions that their mother used to be an author.
All my life I dreamed of being a writer.
Mostly, I dreamed of seeing my name on the front of book covers. People could find my stories and places like Books-A-Million and Barnes & Noble and that idea thrilled me as well as the younger version of myself who would go on “book-scapades” and happily spend too much money on stacks of 6-7 books each time they visited. I loved that when readers would one day find my books that they’d also find a sort of escape between the pages the same way I did as a reader when I finally found my love of reading.
Recently, however, in the past year or two I've noticed that drive and hope and love for what I do has slightly dimmed.
And well, I don't know exactly what to do with that.
You might have noticed that I haven't been posting as much as often about my writing about how books are going also hasn’t been a main source of content because I haven't really been writing them. Or, when I am writing them, they aren't coming along as quickly or as joyously or as well as my previous books.
In fact, each word feels like pulling teeth. It feels like I am stacking boring blocks that somewhat match up but don’t look right one after another in order to just create something that I actively hate every step of the way.
I did what everyone told me to do in order to hopefully find the spark for writing— my dream that I once had.
I rested. I gave the words time to rest. I tried to do things that would inspire me more in order to come back to the document and my WIPs a whole new writer ready to get back to work.
But the longer I waited to come back to the keyboard, the longer I struggled at the keyboard, the more I realized just how hard it felt to be there how hard it felt to do the things I loved that even surrounded writing. Now, not only did writing feel like torture. A chore at the very least. Everything surrounding it also has. Posting to market books on social media. Even reading has felt like a painful reminder causing me to lose focus, reading and re-reading the same page over and over again like I used to as a child who passionately disliked being forced to read anything.
The sources I once loved that brought me the most inspiration and excitement to be just like authors has felt like it has on and off disappeared entirely from my life. It’s felt like a death I’ve been grieving, unable to figure out how to make it all come back to life.
Some days, I’ve wondered why I can't just give up. To be honest, recently some days, I wish that I would have given up 10 years ago when I need to decide what I wanted to study in school. I think about what or who I would’ve been if I had picked something a little more practical rather than just going through the motions of what I enjoyed and loved. Maybe then, I’d have a fall back in a sense, so I didn't feel like I was floundering in the creative well, so empty that I might as well be clawing at the walls and screaming for someone to find me. Save me. Save the stories I know I have yet to write and desperately want to.
But can’t.
Yet, I keep finding myself back at my laptop. I find myself staring at my desk, trying to find the inspiration again day, because I don't know who I am without writing.
I don't know who I am without striving to be the best author to hopefully see my name on the best-sellers list one day and all I have to do is wake up and drink coffee and write and struggle but want to write anyway.
And I don't want to be the person in a few years who has a child who mentions that their mother used to be a writer or once wrote books. I don't want to be a used to. I don't want to be the person who gave up passion and joy and the thrill of doing something enough that they put all their eggs in one basket only to now just suddenly left them behind.
Even if I worry they desperately want to be.