I don’t write anymore and I hate it.
I used to look forward to having time to sit down with my laptop and write to my heart’s content. Fiction, poetry, and whatever else came to mind.
But that is no more.
Now, when I sit down with my laptop, I am despondent.
First, I scan through my 70 or 80 or more emails. (It varies depending on how many days have passed since I last tried to catch up.) Most of them, I know, I will never get to.
[Aside: I’m sorry I haven’t kept up with all of you. I am trying but failing. Whenever I sit down and start reading, I start to panic. I don’t even understand why. Maybe I should just stop everything. I honestly don’t know.]
Then I try to write. I read through my idea list (which sucks, by the way). I revisit my draft posts. Sometimes I read some of my old published posts. Instead of inspiring me, though, those old posts make me cry.
I used to write. I used to write well. I miss looking forward to writing… happy to have time to write. But I don’t look forward to it. Not anymore. Instead, I have hopeless boredom and no inspiration or ability to write anything. When I could write, I never felt the hopeless boredom that plagues me now. But I cannot find anything inside me. Most days, I don’t even pick up my laptop. When I glance over at it, I feel sadness… almost sickness. Like it’s just lying there mocking me. If it could talk, it would say, “You are dead to me, Sandra. Don’t even touch me.”
I know I have no obligation to post here. No obligations to anyone. I know this. It feels like I’ve already [mostly] lost my little ‘community‘ that I had here. I could just disappear. Some days, I think that would be best. For me, I mean. Because when my laptop mocks me, staying away from it seems to be the best option. But that makes me sad, too. The quintessential no-win situation.
Trying upsets me. Sometimes, being around here at all upsets me. But writing was my way out of my own head. You were my way out. And I need that. It’s not because I feel obligated to write for you. It’s because I want to write. For me. I just want to write. Period.
If I didn’t care, it would be easier. But I want to be able to write again. I miss it so much. Other than the not-really-fiction story I was inexplicably able to write for last April’s A to Z challenge, I haven’t written any new fiction for well over a year… probably going on two years. It’s not writer’s block… it’s writer’s death.
Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad if I had a substitute activity in my life. A substitute anything. But I don’t have anything. Nothing interests me. Nothing excites me. Not like writing used to. I just want to be there again.
Writing was always my escape. Now I don’t have one.
©2018 what sandra thinks