The label “writer” is something I have always been proud to self-identify as. Since I was 9 or 10 years old, I have been a writer. I have written short stories, (really bad) poetry, (self-indulgent) blogs, research papers, news articles, sketch scripts, social media statuses, Tweets, resumes, copy for advertising, presentations… you name it, I have written it.
Writing has been my therapy, the way to get all the gunk that gets tangled up in my brain (I have brain weasels that create gunk, a topic for some other post) out onto a page so I could examine the gunk and (perhaps) resolve some of my inner conflict and issues.
And, if I could amuse people by doing this… all the better.
Then 2014 happened. My daughter died. My world crashed down around my ears. And, writers block set in.
Yeah, I was still doing some writing – mostly for work, very uninspired, not at all fun. It felt forced because I needed a paycheck or to please a client. My blog laid fallow. One-by-one my outside writing opportunities faded away. I would start and stop projects, over and over, again and again. VERY patient editors (who had known me for years) encouraged me to write when I could see clear to find a topic I felt like putting words to a page about. That didn’t happen very often.
And, years passed: 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019… and, all the brain weasel gunk was building up in my head, making me more and more unhappy. I stopped reading books, because reading the joyous writing of other people (no matter the topic, even somber books have joyous writers,) just put me deeper into my writers block funk…