It is fascinating - from an emotionless perspective - how everything is interconnected. How reading can impact writing, how struggle can impact creativity.
I know that once I wrote entries like prose, with similes and flow. Words poured out of me with ease. I stopped reading for fun when I started the process of joining the military, and I feel like has been since then that my writing suffered. So much of my mental energy went to survival - basic training - undoing the harm of basic training - career course #1 - surviving failure - the pandemic - loss after loss after loss - fighting for my career - career course #2 - and all the fighting I did to reclaim my mental health. It has been 7 years and I don’t want to give another day up to mere survival.
I feel it’s no coincidence that I started reading a book for pleasure - not non-fiction, not for self development - and it has ignited a spark in me to write better. Hell, to write for pleasure.
I can tell you that right now this is difficult. Trying to find the flow between thoughts. Word choice. Feeling the subject is worthy of my time and effort. But I have to start somewhere.
I have enough good in my life, and I want to bring the magic back to the telling. I talk a lot about how the truth of a story is what makes a story compelling, how invested I am in “capital t Truth”. I have lost too much detail of my days to this uninspired mind. I want to write about what it feels like to look at my husband. Or how I can watch my cats just be for hours. I want to dig into the meat of life.
I was considering starting a new “book” here, for creative writing, but I think I just talked myself out of it. I want the writing to be me. The everyday.
This feels like the beginning of something good.
Loading comments...