i’ve had writer’s block for eight years.
i’ve been writing every day since i turned ten. mostly because my dad, told me growing up, that i wasn’t allowed to read anything ELSE until i read the bible & wrote a page in my journal.
needless to say, i got very efficient at reading a verse & covering a page … somewhere there’s a giant box of journals, filled daily for about ten years before i moved away after college.
along the way, i stopped doing it for duty and found a release more potent than even my dad could have foreseen.
i found a weapon, a friend, an instrument … be it life or death. but it’s use was always for me, nursing my heart back to life, every time i took pen and mutilated paper, i come out centered.
when life turned to college, it was incredibly useful to be able to write a thousand words in Oxford essay format in less than an hour and still get an A!
but then i found a friend in writing, a therapist, a champion …. i found a way to share something important. maybe it made me laugh, maybe it made you cry, maybe it made us all think. maybe i didn’t capitalize or punctuate because the format and context were soldiers marching forth conquering my meaning and making a home in your heart.
but then, i started healing, i started wanting to make a difference, to give others that were living in what i’d lived in, the permission to know they could do it … they could choose love. i didn’t know how to reach them other than words … words were the only weapon i had in my rescue mission.
and then my words dried up. i couldn’t even journal for myself. there was a period i’d write the date at the top of the page, and then another and another as the days went by and i had no words, only numbers, dates become meaningless with no words to dance with.
i gave up, i found other ways to rescue, other ways to love and do my part.
then it happened, i stopped trying to be a savior, and let myself just be.
i learned to laugh. i learned to be safe. i learned to find myself funny. i learned to understand that i’d chosen to rescue myself years ago, because i’d been inspired by someone living a HAPPIER life than mine.
i realized that seeing another’s words in story form, sharing their experience, taught me of an existence sweeter and more free then anything i could dream.
i wasn’t really able to write again yet at that point, but i learned to LIVE new words.
i found playful words, inappropriate words, four letter words, words a lady never says, words that say yes to risk, words that let your heart know you’re jumping the cliff.
there are a lot of chapters in this editorial, there are so many swirls of consciousness and growing and rescue and danger and learning and sexy LIVING to share, but first, let’s celebrate, please raise a glass with me … i found my words, and i have somewhere to put them.
there are 501 word increments of history, of present, of dreams, of opinion, of whit, of discovery to release in this space (at least that number since that’s the required word count, no?)
thank you, thank you for reading my words. for enjoying this medium i love. and good night. xo
see you soon.
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