I’m Not A Writer

I finished stoning my costume—which means I’m back and it’s time for tea.

I finally realized why I’m feeling so stuck: I’m not a writer anymore.

And that’s just a small part of it. I don’t create. I haven’t in years; I don’t write (for ABC, for potential publication, and more importantly, for self). I don’t paint, draw, collage—fuck. I don’t even take pride in putting together outfits anymore. I don’t read, not really, actually (the occasional op-ed piece or audiobook doesn’t count). I don’t binge-research random topics I have the sudden urge to learn about. My MO, as early as I can remember, has always been to read, analyze, and react. I have the boxes of notebooks to prove it: I’m in my parents’ home, flipping through the boxes of notebooks I have on everything, from types of foxes and gemstones to meanings of crystals to the Cultural Revolution and thoughts on the Patriot Act.)

I consumed tirelessly and created endlessly.

And now, the closest I come to it is writing copy. Which I love, don’t get me wrong: Finding what makes people’s hearts flutter and creating the perfect message to trigger it is an art form, but it’s not from the soul. Am I proud of the work I produce? Without a doubt. But it’s not really mine—and what I’m beginning to realize is that this feeling of discontent and stagnancy lingers because I’ve stopped creating.

I miss the 16-year-old girl who woke up at four in the morning to make a cup of cappuccino, tiptoe into the basement, and blog. I’d write and research and write until I had to leave for school the next morning, and spend every minute between classes reading Joan Didion or Anaïs Nin.

Where is she?

I can tell you what happened: there was college, there was my career, and there was real life, quarter-life-crisis stuff going on. So I stopped writing, I stopped reading, I stopped consuming, and creating no longer became a priority.

But I need to create to feel content again. Today was the first in a long time when I felt the drive to. I was up at four again, popped a K-cup into a Keurig, and just started typing. It felt right. Like I was home again, me again. And this—this awkward jumble of thoughts, a stream of consciousness if you will—is one of the things that was by me, for me.

So excuse the inevitable typos and imperfect grammar. I’m finding my voice again.

.   .   .

xx