I have opened up this same blank post page about five times since I went to start this. I’ve mulled over what I want to say, and I’ve stalled every time, staring at a page that used to provide me with inspiration to write. I used to be fiery, wanting to tell the world about my passion.
Now I just feel like an impostor.
I don’t think you stop being a writer because things happen in their seasons. Things in their seasons – I’ve written about it before, and I’ve gone longer with writer’s block than this. But I find myself second-guessing the words that used to fall so eagerly from my fingers. I find myself wondering if all the people who ever have told me that I am talented were either blind or lying. I am at a loss and I’m not sure why.
I feel like I’m hiding, pretending I know what I’m doing, when really, I’m an impostor pretending to be a writer.
I was at a conference this weekend – overwhelming, amazing, totally full of love and support – and I penned a few words that weren’t for work or on social media for the first time in a month. And you know, it’s like a release – it’s a tiny leak that might unleash an entire pent-up dam. I am so depressed when I am blocked like this. I feel like someone’s taken away a limb. I’ve been unhappy and restless, and this is the exact reason why.
And I have never felt like a bad writer, but as I go deeper into why I can’t write, I realize that I AM a bad writer – not because I can’t write, but because I haven’t given myself time to grow, stretch, and learn. I am obsessed with churning out the next thing for the next deadline. Creativity is gone when that happens. In its place, there’s exhaustion and annoyance and worst – boredom.
I used to be so creative. Metaphors would spring to my mind. I would imagine the moon was following me, just me, shining her light on me and fuelling my inspiration. And maybe it’s Millennial bullshit – maybe it’s the “Everyone’s so special” generational crap right now – but I really believed that I was someone special, I had something special to say, and that I was born to change the world. In my darkest depression, I believed that. It’s what kept me from killing myself and extinguishing my spark those long white winter nights.
I even remember the beauty in them. The sparkling snow under the streetlights and the darkness that never ended.
I don’t know if you come out of this, or if you can. All I know is that I’m going to try, because I don’t give up – I made that promise to myself. It’s even tattooed on me. I made it permanent because I know myself. Permission to give up means I may as well not be alive at all. Permission to give up creating means that whatever purpose, stupid Millennial bullshit or not, I was put here for is wasted.
So I might be an impostor, hiding behind a mask of confidence and knowledge. I can smile and you’ll think I’ve got this. And I’ll keep doing it live until suddenly it becomes true.
You can be a writer even if you don’t write. There are so many people who have taught me that – and to this day, in this moment, I believe that more than I ever believed in any muse, more than I say my prayers at night, more than I know that I myself am real.
I believe it, and I’ll live it.
You can follow me at http://www.livejournal.com/users/chasing_silver as I rediscover my writer self through The Real LJ Idol.