Somewhere down the line, in our short time alive, you thought – maybe I’m just not meant to write.
I can share you two stories.
One, when I was 12. I would have a group of friends who were into anime and manga (japanese shows and comics) and every single day, we’d recap the shows we watched from home, talk about the best parts, and draw fanart of them.
We’d make up our own stories, with our own characters and worlds and we’d even draw comics of our characters visiting each other and we’d write our own light novels and stories. It was so fricking exciting seeing a friend read a joke for the first time and see her laugh. I did that, I’d think. She’s enjoying my work.
Story number two. I would write furiously into notebooks, worlds I created. The moment my brother would go near me I’d stuff it under the chair. I remember one time meeting an older artist, and thinking, oh I can never be that. They say I’m smart, I’m going to a science highschool. I can’t go to creative writing class, I’m a math contestant.
It will look better in my resume.
I still remember how much I’ve died of jealousy staring outside of a creative writing class. Drinking in the exercises from their published works. I was so – envious. And it was so visceral to me – I can do this, but also: It’s too late.
So Sherlock, What do you think stops me (and you) from writing?
Somewhere down the line, you learned Shame.
Somewhere down the line, you were convinced that being an artist, creating stories and worlds, was worthless, stupid and of no value. Somewhere down the line you were convinced that no one would listen so you let that part of you that wanted to make, cripple within itself and give you this almost round the clock indigestion.
Somewhere down the line, you didn’t just shut up your voice. You killed it- that’s what frustrated means. You killed an aspect of yourself. And the craziest part is, in our innermost core- we are invincible.
So you’re left here reading this going like – but fuck. I still want to write.
That no matter what the world threw at you (or how your mind lied to you) being a creator, in both the written word, screenplay, comic whatever — was too much part of what You were made for, that it couldn’t be erased.
Because if you truly didn’t care, you wouldn’t give a fuck.
I can personally say that I don’t like sports. I don’t hate it, I don’t obsess over not being able to do it, or overly criticizing people who do it, viscerally living out and projecting myself to all the creative work that’s out there and coming off as a bitter sad bitch.
I just don’t care, it’s plain and simple apathy. It doesn’t matter.
Notice. You still give a shit.
You’re a writer that doesn’t write reading a blog about not writing.
Another story. About two years ago I had a good friend of mine dare me to do nanowrimo. For fun, we won’t even post anything, just send what you wrote to said friend and that’s it. Then well.
Light at the end of the tunnel, long story short. I cried, excessively. An embarrassing amount. If there is a saving grace to my ten year hell of not being a creative then it is this – I can tell you I’ve been there and I can tell you there is a way out.
And let me tell you the key to doing it. If you’d like.
Accept, that whatever shit things you’ve believed, you still want to write.
That you’re a writer, you can’t help it, and that you don’t fucking need to explain it.
Regardless what anyone says, You’re worthy.
I have found that the fountain of my pain has been my fountain of power and god wasn’t that a good thing. I’ve solved a lot of my internal woes through my work and have gained mountains of self-awareness.
Then, I shared my work.
It was just a piece of fanfiction. It crawled up from 40 to 200+ views. Not much, but.
When I thought back to my 12 year old self, her stories were only read by a 7 people tops, her friends and probably her english literary professor. I couldn’t in my mind imagine having even 20! people read it. I mean if say half of those views were just skims or people who didn’t finish.
20! Smiling, entertained friends, in my gradeschool balcony, occasionally leaving a comment to scream at me for the work that I’ve done. How good it is, how poetic, how it made them goddamn feel again.
And I go like ‘yeah?’ with tears in my eyes. That one friend of mine who reacted to each piece of my nanowrimo, I cannot thank him enough for the time and attention he gave to my voice gasping for air. How he encouraged it. How he said, yes you have a wonderful imagination.
Now, go sing.
Maybe I’m endorsing you to join Nanowrimo? Maybe.
But I’m most probably endorsing you to remember why you write again. Remembering how much joy I brought my friends when I was younger, that’s my gold. That’s the well I draw myself from when I ever have doubts about writing.
Heck, someone might enjoy this. Someone might need this.
And I’m asking you really a simple question. When you wrote way back when, why did you do it? What did it bring you? You used to write? Why did you do it?
Without the excuses of Reality and what he said, she said. What is it to you? The only person that actually matters in the first place. Why did you write? And can that be a good enough reason today?
To entertain a friend ?
It doesn’t matter what it is, just withhold all judgement for a while and remember how that feels exactly. Let it sink in into your bones, past the PTSD and the doubt.
The why and the magnificence of why you write, why you make and why you have a voice.
Then, I hope you write.
PS: Since then I’ve graduated to writing longer and more daring fiction. And I’m even part of the writer’s circle of a local theater group. I’m writing a few plays that I want to enter in a short competition – and hell I’ve written everything that’s on this blog!
I’ve written a bunch of stuff too for reikirays and being paid as a writer has never been so sweet.
If you like my stuff about healing the artist inside yourself, do check out my Unlock the Artist Within Series which is a series/service I have that focuses on people who are going through the same predicament as I have (and am having) in terms of pairing away the Drama of why we’re not Making.
Why we ain’t Artists. With that added magick mojo psychic lady that’s also part of my life experience. Hope to see you around and well,