The Story Continues

There’s a part of me that wonders if I subconsciously avoided giving power to an unavoidable and undeniable truth by refusing to speak about it. It’s one that I’ve known and held onto for months or, maybe, even years by this point. Perhaps I was afraid of what it could mean to place this feeling into words, and what those words would cement not just to myself, but to others who pay me even an iota of their attention.

Then again, to simplify what already seems to be yet another clear attempt at procrastination, maybe finally doing just that this is the nudge I need.

I’m ready to write again.

For a long while, I’ve felt that familiar rumble in my gut that grows fiercer with each pass of my fingertips across the keyboard, the excitement that builds when you know you’ve got something to say (even if no one agrees with you). That fire. That beautiful, raging, growing, and all-consuming fire. Fuck, man, how I’ve missed that feeling! I’ve long made peace with the fact that what was once a hobby is now my niche, and I doubt I’d ever feel comfortable stepping outside of its metaphorical bounds for too long.

With that said, I also recognize that molding that niche into something a bit less personal and a lot more professional is partially what led to me losing this passion almost completely. Being paid to talk shit about the rich and shameless was great… until it very much wasn’t. Trust me when I say that it’s a different vibe waking up every day wanting to write, versus waking up every day and knowing you have to write. And on top of that, writing in a style that’s not your own yet somehow comes across as being completely your own.

To say I had grown tired of being a professional copycat would be an understatement.

The entire reason I fell in love with the craft of writing was the aspect of expression: Full, uncensored, imperfect, and real expression. As someone who often claims to be cut from a different cloth than most, someone whose vulnerability is almost as sheer as plastic (yes, I see the irony – or perhaps, see through it), I often believe that words are both my shield and my sword. They both protect me and give me the strongest weapon to help me survive this wild world. Without them, I do not doubt that life and all of its many trials and tribulations would defeat me daily.

I write because I have to. I write because there is no other way for me.

As for what brought me back here, I suppose time, or rather, losing so much time, is a big factor. My era of depression took away nearly three years of my life, and two very important people from the entirety of my existence. After losing my mother, the second of those VIPs (and the one who happened to be my emotional and financial support system after falling into bed and refusing to get up for almost 13 months), I was forced to accept an employment opportunity that I knew from the beginning had no real promise, but offered just enough to get the bills paid.

Not even a week into the new job, I began to feel the strain. It took way too long for me to get the hang of things and I knew part of that was due to the inner struggle of professional obligation. Please don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for being employed and even more for the weekly uptick in my bank account, but at the end of the day, it’s a job for me and nothing more.

After I made it a year as a freelance writer and knew for certain that I had found my path, I made a silent promise to myself that I would never do anything else. And for 6 years after that mark, I maintained that promise. Breaking it, albeit through no fault of my own, has not been easy to rectify mentally or emotionally. During almost every shift at my current job, I hear my inner voice asking, “I’m not supposed to be doing this. I know what I’m supposed to be doing. Why am I not doing it?”

And I think I may have finally come to the point where I’ve grown tired of not having any other answer than “I’m not ready yet.”

I think I’m ready now.

Now, I’m not quitting my job. That would be ridiculous and to be real, Papa’s got a brand new apartment to look after. What I can do for now is start giving the right amount of energy and time that these words both demand and deserve. Expect to hear a lot more from me – more than you’ve probably heard in a good, long while. For the longest time, I’ve said that the ink in this proverbial pen of mine hasn’t dried out and it’s time to prove that to myself, first and foremost, once and for all.

My imperfect and impassioned love for the written word once opened up a world I never thought I’d experience. Now, it’s time for a new chapter. A long-delayed chapter. Ladies, gentlemen, and neither and both, the story continues. Finally.