Regina (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
summer_sparrow) wrote2008-10-27 10:52 am
summer_sparrow) wrote2008-10-27 10:52 am
Entry tags:
lost things
Wow, two posts in under a week. Maybe it's to do with being sick.
I know a lot of people on my flist write.
I haven't written a word of prose in a year (more? I'm not sure), and the only poetry is a sad little scribble about rabbits. Everyone is encouraging me to write, but I can't seem to.
It's not like writer's block. I've dealt with that, I know what it's like. It's simply as if... as if words are no longer in me. I can't write because there is nothing there. No stories or words... not even the flashes of pictures that come like a badly edited movie, the origin of most of my ideas.
I thought perhaps that since writing is sort of cathartic for me, that maybe upturns in my life were the cause. Then I realized I still have problems-- I'm still not happy most of the time-- they're just different problems.
Maybe it's having something else to focus on? Most of my time, my energy, my thoughts, are given to the boy. Not a bad thing-- he makes me happy, usually.
I don't even know what I expect from this post-- it's just sheer frustration. I don't let on usually but this hurts so much I could cry. Words are what I do. They're what I am. I could always, always use words, the only thing I ever handled with complete assurance. Even when I was wrong-- with words, I believed myself right. If you listen to my mother's stories about my childhood-- there's nothing interesting before I could talk. Her favorite was when I was about four-- they told me a ditch I was near was dangerous, and I spent the day repeating "dangerous ditch" in all sorts of ways. I have always loved words and sounds and...
Like I said, I don't know what I expect this to do for me. I don't feel any better than when I started. I just needed to say it, and if I said it to anyone irl, they'd say "well, then write."
They don't understand how much it breaks my heart that I can't.
I know a lot of people on my flist write.
I haven't written a word of prose in a year (more? I'm not sure), and the only poetry is a sad little scribble about rabbits. Everyone is encouraging me to write, but I can't seem to.
It's not like writer's block. I've dealt with that, I know what it's like. It's simply as if... as if words are no longer in me. I can't write because there is nothing there. No stories or words... not even the flashes of pictures that come like a badly edited movie, the origin of most of my ideas.
I thought perhaps that since writing is sort of cathartic for me, that maybe upturns in my life were the cause. Then I realized I still have problems-- I'm still not happy most of the time-- they're just different problems.
Maybe it's having something else to focus on? Most of my time, my energy, my thoughts, are given to the boy. Not a bad thing-- he makes me happy, usually.
I don't even know what I expect from this post-- it's just sheer frustration. I don't let on usually but this hurts so much I could cry. Words are what I do. They're what I am. I could always, always use words, the only thing I ever handled with complete assurance. Even when I was wrong-- with words, I believed myself right. If you listen to my mother's stories about my childhood-- there's nothing interesting before I could talk. Her favorite was when I was about four-- they told me a ditch I was near was dangerous, and I spent the day repeating "dangerous ditch" in all sorts of ways. I have always loved words and sounds and...
Like I said, I don't know what I expect this to do for me. I don't feel any better than when I started. I just needed to say it, and if I said it to anyone irl, they'd say "well, then write."
They don't understand how much it breaks my heart that I can't.