There are days that I sit here and wonder why I write. I’ve asked myself that question more often than not over the past decade. I had hopes, dreams, and somewhere on the path called a growing career, I stopped.
What was once wild optimism and fun every time I sat down in front of my computer dried up. I was left hanging, rotten fruit clinging to the topmost branches, knowing the only thing left for me to do was drop and return to dust.
I don’t know what happened along the way. There used to be a lot of camaraderie in the writing community. It was small and beautiful until it wasn’t. One day I woke up and in its place was a farm where people concentrated on growing platforms instead of discussions about the language.
These days, I have a hard time looking at my journal, let alone writing. There are piles of journals, all brimming with words. Filled with hopes, dreams, fears, and the inane bullshit we’re all guilty of.
There is also a novel. One I have labored over, poured my heart and soul into. And now, when I am so close to having it where I want it to be, I am struggling and have considering axing everything past page 100.
My life centers around the mantra do no harm. I would rather die than hurt someone intentionally. (Writers and their drama, right?) My characters are not real people, but they are real to me. What if the way they are written hurts others unintentionally?
I don’t know what to do and feel so very lost.
My writer’s group disbanded. People moved away, life happened. Thanks to COVID, and my husband’s near-death at the end of February, we are shut in until there is a tried and true vaccine and doctors say we are allowed to leave the house. I’m optimistic that maybe I’ll be able to do something simple, like walk into a grocery store again, in Spring 2021.
There is no backtracking, no retracing of my steps to find what I’ve lost. From the looks of things, the soles my shoes are wearing thin and the bread crumbs along the trail were picked up by the birds flocking in the trees, crying their weary song.
So, dear reader, I fling these random words into the wild blue yonder and hope this pseudo prayer to the universe is heard. And while I work through whatever I am supposed to do, I’ll listen for its response.
