It’s about time that I tackle the question many people that have given this blog some kind of appreciation and attention have been wondering. It’s been a year of big changes and one thing that has stood out to me is that I am no longer writing. No longer writing the way I used to. Things are not being broken down and understood by means of me sitting down and writing them out. Something has changed and I want to explain myself – as best as I can – through writing.
I am no longer writing because I am unable to do so. The act of taking that voice in my head and writing it out is not something I am feeling inclined to do any more. Can it be that this is where it ends for me? When I’m older and browsing through a library and chance upon a novel that I could’ve written – will it make me feel like it was beyond my ability? Like I was only a lost cause when it came to the written word. I don’t know.
All I know is that writing is not capable of paying my rent. That writing is not a means to the end. That I chose to be where I am and I chose what I wanted to do with my day and I knowingly left writing out of it. But all that being said, I cannot stress enough that I am happy. As happy as I’ve ever known myself to be. I’m accepting now – I am no longer deeply unsatisfied with my surroundings, my circumstances, my shortcomings. I am accepting. I know love like I’ve never known before. I have the feeling of belonging to a group of people that don’t care about how trying I was when I was a child. I am alive in this moment and I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.
This also brings me to something that I’ve recently been struggling with. Something that I may change my mind about later but for now feels stubbornly true – I am not meant to be a writer. I thought I knew it in the bones of my being that writing was what kept me going and that writing would save me and maybe someday give me a pretty roof on my head, a fireplace and maybe even a decent amount of money. What I didn’t see coming was that writing would become a labour of love to a point where I just couldn’t even bring myself to think of it any more.
The part about this change that is still tough on me is that the writing voice in my head is now extremely faint, a terribly quiet whisper and this is simply not cathartic.
This blog still has a steady number of views and visitors flowing in daily and that astounds me. Why is anyone reading something I wrote years ago that doesn’t even come close to how I feel now or who I am now? I read some of the posts on this blog and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to write like that again. Have I betrayed myself by choosing to let go of something I was so passionate about back when I had nothing else in my life?
The changes to my lifestyle are for the better, I tell myself. The short hair, the polished heels and the potential to grow my savings are everything I need to feel fulfilled. Writing never eased the nightmares about where the money would come from.
I have hundred posts on this blog now (not including this one I’m writing – because it may just end up in my drafts like the rest.) That is something, right? A reminder that I grounded myself on Sloppy Etymology for a considerable period of time.
Even now, I believe I have failed to explain what I set out to. My thoughts are scattered and the exercise of reaching out and grabbing them and forcing them down onto paper is too tiresome. If it’s any consolation, everyday I’m doing the second best thing I can do when I can’t write. I’m reading.