{"id":11709,"date":"2017-02-26T14:34:47","date_gmt":"2017-02-26T19:34:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/?p=11709"},"modified":"2021-07-17T15:30:08","modified_gmt":"2021-07-17T22:30:08","slug":"im-not-writer","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/im-not-writer\/","title":{"rendered":"I’m Not A Writer"},"content":{"rendered":"

I finished stoning my costume<\/a>\u2014which means I’m back and it’s\u00a0time for tea.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"book<\/p>\n

I finally realized why I’m feeling so stuck:\u00a0I’m not a writer anymore<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

And that’s just a small part of it. I don’t create. I haven’t in years; I don’t write (for ABC<\/span><\/a>, for potential publication, and more importantly, for self). I don’t paint, draw, collage\u2014fuck.<\/em> I don’t even take pride in putting together outfits<\/span><\/a> anymore. I don’t read, not\u00a0really<\/em>, 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.)<\/p>\n

I consumed tirelessly and created endlessly.<\/p>\n

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\u00a0is an art form,\u00a0but it’s not from the soul. Am I proud of the work I produce? Without a doubt. But it’s not\u00a0really<\/em> mine\u2014and what I’m beginning to realize is that this feeling of discontent and stagnancy lingers because I’ve stopped creating.<\/p>\n

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\u00a0and write until I had to leave for school the next morning, and spend every minute between classes reading Joan Didion or Ana\u00efs\u00a0Nin.<\/p>\n

Where is she?<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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<\/em> again. And this\u2014this awkward jumble of thoughts, a stream of consciousness if you will\u2014is one of the things that was by me, for me.<\/p>\n

So excuse the inevitable typos and imperfect grammar. I’m finding my voice again.<\/p>\n

. \u00a0 . \u00a0 .<\/p>\n

xx<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I finished stoning my costume\u2014which means I’m back and it’s\u00a0time for tea. I finally realized why I’m feeling so stuck:\u00a0I’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\u2014fuck. I don’t even take pride in putting together outfits anymore. I don’t read, not\u00a0really, 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. 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Am…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"full-width-content","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[19],"tags":[366],"class_list":{"0":"post-11709","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-kims-diary","7":"tag-diary","8":"entry","9":"has-post-thumbnail"},"yoast_head":"\nI'm Not A Writer • Soft Sensibilities<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/im-not-writer\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"I'm Not A Writer • Soft Sensibilities\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"I finished stoning my costume\u2014which means I’m back and it’s\u00a0time for tea. 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It's funny how we happen upon whatever it is we need the most,\u00a0when we need it\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Advice"","block_context":{"text":"Advice","link":"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/category\/philosophy\/advice\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"starbucks oprah chai tea latte quote","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/10\/starbucks-oprah-chai-tea-latte-quote3-1024x1024.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200,"srcset":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/10\/starbucks-oprah-chai-tea-latte-quote3-1024x1024.jpg?resize=350%2C200 1x, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/10\/starbucks-oprah-chai-tea-latte-quote3-1024x1024.jpg?resize=525%2C300 1.5x, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/10\/starbucks-oprah-chai-tea-latte-quote3-1024x1024.jpg?resize=700%2C400 2x"},"classes":[]},{"id":301,"url":"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/contrary-to-popular-belief-i-did-fall-in-love\/","url_meta":{"origin":11709,"position":3},"title":"Contrary to Popular Belief, I Did Fall In Love","author":"Kimberly","date":"14 February 2011","format":false,"excerpt":"Inspired by the talented writer (and soon to be published author; I\u2019m looking incredibly forward to her book!) behind\u00a0God, I Love Paris, I\u2019ve scribbled out a list of things I fell in love with this past year. 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I suppose, then, that Mother Nature was kind to my heart this year: we had all of two\u00a0real weeks of\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Etc."","block_context":{"text":"Etc.","link":"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/category\/life\/etc\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"rihanna","src":"https:\/\/abitcoquettish.files.wordpress.com\/2013\/09\/rihanna.png?w=350&h=200&crop=1","width":350,"height":200,"srcset":"https:\/\/abitcoquettish.files.wordpress.com\/2013\/09\/rihanna.png?w=350&h=200&crop=1 1x, https:\/\/abitcoquettish.files.wordpress.com\/2013\/09\/rihanna.png?w=525&h=300&crop=1 1.5x"},"classes":[]},{"id":11697,"url":"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/mondays-fine-update\/","url_meta":{"origin":11709,"position":5},"title":"Mondays Are Fine: An Update","author":"Kimberly","date":"20 February 2017","format":false,"excerpt":"Hello, hi, it's me again. Mondays are fine\u2014except I can't find my bullet journal anywhere for the life of me. The irony, right? Having lost the very thing that was meant to keep me organized means that my life is now in shambles. (Well, not quite. 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