I give up. I’ve been trying to write a post about why I don’t want to talk about writing, but I think I’ll just be straightforward.
It has nothing to do with the state of the world. I had a long overdue public meltdown about writing crap at the beginning of the year. Though, honestly, while I know it isn’t true, I’ve been feeling very much like I’m not allowed to be upset about anything. This mentality might actually be making everything worse.
So here I am. Complaining about writing again. I’m not apologizing for it.
There are a lot of things I’m dealing with right now. I’d rather not add writing issues to the pile, but it’s not like I need that energy for writing.
While I was self-publishing, I kept burning myself out. It wasn’t how much I was writing. It might be how much I was editing. I think it’s a combination of writing a lot, editing a lot, doing a bunch of “business stuff” that I’m horrible at, and not getting enough sleep – at the same time. It wasn’t right for me, I could feel that, and I kept charging forward anyway because I didn’t want to quit or give up.
The first time I crashed I was able to get the proverbial car back on the road. But after the last time, the car is totaled. I needed an entirely new car! Do I even want to program writing into this car?
It’s like having to get back on the road again after some crazy lady forced you to choose between getting hit broadside or going into a ditch. True story.
I didn’t know if I wanted to drive anymore.
I don’t know if I want to write anymore.
I feel like I can choose, for probably the first time in my life, whether I want to be a person who creates stories.
Maybe I’ll try to be a poet.
I know burnouts can take awhile to recover from. It’s possible I’m still in the fallout. But I don’t think I’m burned out anymore. I think I just don’t want to write anymore. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. I’m not declaring that I’ll never write again. All I wanted to do was get on here and say that I won’t be talking about writing for a while.
For whatever reason, I tend to read a lot of triggering things on purpose. I feel like it’s cathartic or something. But when people trigger my writing issues, I either get angry or break down into tears. I know it’s dramatic, but writing has always been super important to me. Maybe too important. And maybe I’m paying for that now. Or maybe I’d feel better if I wrote something.
I just don’t want to write stories that sit on my computer and do nothing. I don’t want to write “just for the fun of it.” My intention was always to share the better stories and trash the rest. There are a lot of things I can do for fun that don’t require me to stare at a screen for several hours and drive myself crazy.
But like I said, no declarations are being made. I’m just in a non-writing season. And in the meantime, I’m probably just going to talk about books for a while. So if no one cares about the blog anymore because it gets too random, I understand. I like blogging. I’ll still be here. A one-woman show. Audience or no audience. Reading hundreds of books in the background because stories still make me happy. 🙂