I haven’t written consistently for a very long time.
7 years, actually.
I find this exceedingly ironic.
You see, I’ve been an English teacher for 7 years.
I’ve been able to read, absorb, critique and experience the world’s best writers but I just haven’t been able to transfer that to paper.
Time.
Effort.
Energy.
Perhaps.
I’ve only ever written during hardships, very rarely during good times. But I’ve had hardships. The most difficult of times. The loss of love, life and the will to live. Yet still the words just wouldn’t come.
I often think a fear, a fear of being able to put that pen to paper and experiencing what will really happen, writing something I don’t want to read.
An unlocking of a gate to a path I don’t want to go down.
I think we’re all afraid of that. Letting our heads wonder freely when our hearts feel so contented.
I need to commit to this.
You won’t write yourself.
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