I’ve told myself that I can be one of those writers that writes everyday. That I should write everyday. That I’m actually capable of writing everyday. But as my writing lulls increase in size and space within the back of my mind, I find that I can’t actually write everyday. Somedays nothing, at all, comes to me. It’s all a blank dark shadow. I try to imagine myself writing something eloquent and moving but nothing comes to mind. Nothing comes or goes…anywhere.
I’ve grown accustom to the nothingness. It’s no longer a bad thing that overshadows me. Writing to me isn’t just about writing. It’s about writing something that I will be proud of. Something that I will appreciate and admire and respect. After all, everything I write has my name on it.
When I look at my blog and see that days or maybe even weeks have gone by without a new post, I used to think that I wasn’t being the writer that I could be. That I wasn’t utilizing each and every outlet I had for writing. That I wasn’t doing what I thought I was supposed to be doing.
But I can’t write if I feel like I have to do it. I don’t want to have to write. When I write, it’s because I have something to say, or even not say. When I have visions in my mind and words running through my head. I know the limits to my writing and I know when something I write isn’t up to my standards of “quality” writing. And on those days, or writing those posts, that “Publish” button will never get pushed. It’s not worth it and it’s not my best effort.
Although this post isn’t about anything particularly groundbreaking and it might not be able to insight some kind of reaction, it’s still something that I needed. It’s something that needed to be written.
Write to write. Write because you need to write. Write to settle the rage within you. Write with an internal purpose. Write about someone or something, that means so much to you, that you don’t care what others think