I used to think of myself as a writer, in the sense that enjoyed writing and I practiced it regularly. As a child, I would write short
stories on rainy afternoons. When I went to college, I liked writing so much
that I majored in it and then continued writing to document my experiences as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Kyrgyzstan, an English teacher in Japan, and beyond. Writing never felt like work – it felt like an
emotional release.
Somewhere along the way, I lost my flow and my voice. Now, I
struggle to write. My blogs are afterthoughts, an item to check off a list. My
posts are lifeless lists, not an exploration of life experiences. Behind each of those lists is a story that involves real loneliness, joy, love, and fear, but it's a story that I can no longer seem to tell.
What's more, I
fear my readers and their impressions of my posts. I can no longer write with
biting honesty.
My creativity has been quashed.
This is not a plea for emotional support, but a
plea for a return of creative energy. How can I relocate the source of
something that used to give me such joy? And is it even worth pursuing or do joys and talents shift and change with age, just like everything else?
