Writing as therapy.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to sit down and write. 

I’ve wanted to, I’ve had those thoughts, those urges and needs to put pen to paper and let the characters and the world take me over and spill out into the world. 

But I can’t. I haven’t been able to. Every time I’ve gotten out a notebook, or opened up my laptop, the blank page or screen just stares back at me and everything goes away. 

Its not that my mind isn’t still creating worlds and people for me, they’re just coming through my dreams instead of my writing. 

I want that ability to become the writing utensil for the worlds in my head, have them flow so easily. Like they used to. 

But now, everything comes so hard. I come home from work and my brain is fried, I can’t think creatively or open myself to the words. I’ve had to shut it off while I’m at work. 
I’ve been hoping that things will be better and that I won’t have to resort to such measures to be successful at work, and that I will have my writing back. 

I’ve felt kind of hollow without it, but knowing there was nothing I could do about it was the most distressing thing. 
I see people following their passion in their work, doing what they love, and even when things are tough for them, they still have the satisfaction of knowing that what they do, they do for their love of it. I haven’t had that. I’ve had a job. Something I have to do to make money so I can live my life. Hopefully things are going to be getting better soon, and I will have some more joy in my job, or at least not just tolerate it. And therefore, I’ll be able to still follow my joy, and let the words take me, make me their vessel. 

(Yes, I know that’s very woo woo, but when I’m in the zone, when I’m really feeling it, I’m not writing, not actively, the words are just coming to me, and all I have to do is type.)

 

 

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