I’ve been writing since I was as young as nine years old. Creativity was just always up my alley, and sometimes I had a story to tell that I couldn’t keep inside. By the time I was eleven, I’d written and finished a short story for school (which doesn’t seem like much of an accomplishment now, but it felt good at the time). I would fervently write and abandon stories on the world’s smallest pink laptop, and I had the aspiration to be a professional writer. I always had these amazing ideas for stories to tell, but never got around to telling the whole thing. They were birthed in my mind and died of starvation in the files of my computers. And for a long time I felt fine with this.
Then, at sixteen, I got my heart broken.
This person had already fucked me up before, so I shouldn’t have been shocked. After someone spends a whole summer talking to you, tells you they’re going to date you once summer break is over, and then gets back together with their shitty ex, you shouldn’t be shocked when they lead you on again. But, at the time, I’d tried to be understanding and remain their friend. Then, they did it again, and it destroyed me.
I was a wreck for months, inconsolable and absolutely depressed. I couldn’t do anything remotely creative. Including writing. As someone whose whole future hinges on writing and creation, this was probably the worst thing to happen to me. Looking back, it feels like I’d just been wallowing in self pity, but I know that’s not it – I’ve never been one to do that. It was mostly the fact that it was a “breakup” with someone I hadn’t even dated – why was I giving them so much power? Why couldn’t I pick myself up like I usually do and move on?
This lasted from December 2015 to March 2016, and while it was only three months, it felt like forever. Then, the person who broke my heart’s birthday rolled around, and because I was still (stupidly) their friend, I wanted to do something for them. In a way, I think I was seeking closure from the whole thing, so I started writing. Finally. It poured out of me like a dam had burst, and I finished over twenty pages of a short story in a weekend.
Shortly after, I began writing what would soon become the first draft of my first novel. After three months of nothing at all, it was like I couldn’t stop writing. I finished my 400 page, 100,000 word draft in just over a year, and it felt like the beginning of something great.
Then, I went to college. Don’t get me wrong, I love college – this is probably the best education I’ve had in all my life and I absolutely cherish it. But since I’ve been at college, it’s like my creative juices are exhausted and I can’t force myself to write anything more than I need to. As an English major, it’s hard to have mountains of required reading and writing and also do those things for fun in my free time. I can’t quite remember the last time I felt motivated to creatively write.
I’ve decided this must change. What kind of writer will I ever be if I don’t push myself to put my stories to words? How will I ever be the author I want to be if I can’t find a way to be creative when I’m stressed? So, this month marks the beginning of a change for me – I’m finally writing again. Hopefully, I’ll push myself only for a little bit before my creative fire is lit again, and I’ll be writing like I was before college.
Wish me luck.