People who don’t really know me or only know me through social media don’t truly understand my love for writing. Ever since I was a little girl I wrote short stories, poems, fanfics, etc. I was even that kid that loved to write essays. All throughout school I was praised by teachers for my vivid imagination and the ways I could make characters come alive. I don’t know how or when my love for something that was my life vanished. It’s like losing a limb. There’s something very numbing about it. You don’t understand how lost I truly feel. Something that would take me hours to finish suddenly takes years. I’m 31 and things I wrote when I was in my early teens seems to be executed much more elegantly. I feel as though my talent is dying and slowly moving backward in slow motion. I’ve tried to much to revive it. I start numerous blogs, I share my shitty work, I try to write down what comes to mind, I put my characters through ridiculous scenarios to see if any storyline changes motivate me, I fail at trying to journal, and nothing works. Today something stuck in my head. It will be my new mantra. Whether it will stick or not will be seen in the future, but it’s given me more hope that any other phony uplifting words like “You can do it!” has.
"You have a story that needs to be told. If you don’t tell the world your story, who will?"
That’s it. I have many stories I want to write and if I don’t get out there and tell the world about it, the remaining inkling of talent I have will be wasted. The passion isn’t what it used to be, but I can’t picture myself doing anything other than writing. That’s all there is for me. Maybe the hardship of life robbed me of the one thing that brought me happiness, but I’m certain that I can find that happy again in my work. I can’t give up now. I can’t wait until I’m on my deathbed and feel regret for the things I never said.