Writing Was Fun Once, Right?

I used to write because I loved it. Now I’m just trying to remember what that felt like.

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing lately.

When aren’t I, right?

But now, I am not the act of writing, necessarily, but the why of it. Like, why I started. Why I kept going. Why I’m trying to find my way back now. Why it isn’t like it once was.

Because if I’m honest, it hasn’t felt very fun lately.

Even when I try to make it fun.

Giving myself stickers for every thousand words. Hosting LIVE writing sprints so that I feel like others are cheering me on and keeping me off my phone. Giving myself the permission to write badly so long as I am getting something done.

I talk about my “why” a lot since it has been brought up to me again a bit ago. Maybe more than I need to, but it helps me not give up and deteriorate into a complete breakdown at the very least.

It’s easy to get lost in the noise of trying to write consistently, or publicly, or professionally, or whatever label fits this week. So I’ve been trying to remember where I came from with it all.

What first pulled me in.

And in the beginning, when I first started writing after finding my love of books in the YA section of any library or bookstore, it was pretty simple. I wanted community.

I wanted to find my people. That’s it.

I wasn’t the most popular of individuals. I was the cliche of “always picked last” and so when I found folks who liked the same stories I liked, I wanted to be a part of that. More so, I wanted to be at the center doing the one thing I figured I knew I wanted to do.

Because I loved hearing from everyone. Who had opinions about book boyfriends and weird plot twists and fan theories that got a little too detailed (in the best way). I didn’t care if I was “good” at writing.

I just wanted to be in conversation with others who lit up over the same things.

That version of writing felt like sitting on my floor or on my day bed in my childhood bedroom, feet hanging off the edge and oversized laptop heating near-burn marks into my thighs as I wrote and looked online for others talking for hours about fictional characters like they were real.

It was warm. It was low-stakes. It was thrilling. It was fun.

Then, somewhere along the way, my “why” shifted.

I started thinking about impact.

I remember having this quiet hope that something I wrote might find its way into someone’s hands at the right time. Like maybe a girl out there who was like me would pick up a book with my name on it and feel a little less alone. That she could disappear into a story and come out feeling lighter.

Seen.

And that still matters to me, deeply. But lately, that hope has been kind of crowded out by something heavier. That thing? Stability.

Right now, writing feels like survival no matter how much pressure I try to take away from it. Like, can I do this and also pay my bills? Can I write enough, grow enough, offer enough to make this make sense?

And that’s where it gets tricky. Because it’s not like I stopped loving writing, but it’s harder to tap into that love when there’s pressure sitting on top of it. When it’s not just something I do, but something I have to leverage in order to make it matter. In order to make all the rest of the whys matter.

It’s exhausting. And honestly, kind of lonely sometimes.

So yeah. I’ve been wondering where the fun went again.

Where the joy of it all wandered off to. The part that felt like play. That version of writing that didn’t care about reach or rhythm or formatting.

Just feeling something and getting it down.

Sharing it.

Hoping someone else felt it too.

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