I took a LOOOOOONG hiatus. I guess I needed it, though I feel like I wasted all this time by being away when I could have been writing and improving.
I needed to get in a better emotional space. I wasn’t depressed, nor anxious. But I wasn’t myself. I was still wrestling with the same heart vs head sort of inner conflict I’ve always had. It didn’t get worse, I just was exhausted from the last win, the last big defeat. My writing is tied to my emotional and mental health. If I’m “off”, my writing will suffer the strain. I’ll not accept criticism. I’ll write lots of angsty passive-aggressive poems full of allegories.
I felt guilty about not writing. I wanted to write. I wanted to be creative. Nothing creative came out. I didn’t paint. I didn’t draw. I didn’t craft anything that didn’t have numbered spaces. In this controlled environment, I meditated. I wrapped up in my cocoon, so I could only hear my heartbeat, and I listened to the world turn around me.
I was under a lot of stress for a long time. Work stress. Guilt at not being who I wanted to be.
Then I made a change, prompted by the upcoming National Novel Writing Month. I made a new schedule for myself. I told my husband that I would be practicing writing the last bit of October in preparation for November. I set a time to write and shared it with him so he would know to expect me to be in my office in creative mode.
I wrote 2 new pieces to random prompt words and random genres. I still suck at action/adventure -I’m too literary – (grass, ant hill) and I enjoyed the mockumentary (chair, headphones). I had to take one day off because I was too tired. (My schedule is grueling this school year. I’m too old for this, I swear.) so I skipped the fantasy/sci-fi – my best genre – (car, blue jeans, burger joint). I figured I’d end up writing “Onward” over again, or a sci-fi double of “Onward”. (good movie)
Then I tweeted.
I tweeted using the old prompt games that carried me through the summer. And I loved what I wrote. I may not have been practicing over the summer writing novels of words, but I grew. I grew as I read books, as I knew myself better, as I healed. This growth reflects in my output.
That’s when I discovered…
It wasn’t a haitus.
It was a rebirth.
I am emerging from a cocoon and shaking out my wings.