I used to write all of the time. Like, seriously, all of the time. I wrote every day. I’d write confessions in my journal, poems, stories, really shitty songs… I wrote because I felt like all of my ideas would just disappear if I didn’t write them down. I was a written word hoarder. I kept all of my notebooks, journals, and scraps of paper to read at a later date, because when I read them I’d want to make more.
And then I forgot about them.
I got wrapped up in my relationships. I got involved in the psych-out that is the summer before college. I moved across the state to attend a university. I got swamped with classwork and assigned reading and joining a sorority.
I forgot about writing. I forgot about the thrill sent through me as I touch a pen to paper, the titillation that clicking keys gave me as my thoughts poured into a blank Word document.
Even this blog hasn’t sated my hunger for writing- although I’m sure you all wish it had by now. There’s something missing in my writing that I can’t explain. Words used to flow from me like a stream through a broken dam. I was able to sit down for ten or twenty minutes and write something that I at least found meaningful. I could easily articulate my thoughts with the perfect words.
Now I sit down and write ten drafts a day on WordPress and can’t even find something good to post from that. My poetry is wishy-washy bullshit, and I haven’t finished a short story in almost four years. Something has changed and I don’t know what it is. One of the reasons I decided to write 100 posts a day was to increase my creative output and maybe get me back into the groove of writing.
It hasn’t. I am nowhere in sight of the groove. I hope to find it, or something similar, through my 100 days of blogging.
Until tomorrow, folks.