Again, it has been a year since my last post. I never forgot you were here. In the back of my mind a voice screamed at me to open up a file, and to type out something. Just get it posted and be done with it. I could never bring myself to do that.
In the year I was gone I did as I usually would. I read. Not as much as i would have liked. I wrote. Not as much as I would have liked. The last year for me was rough. There is not a moment in which i can pinpoint why it was a rough year, but as a whole, last year was one of the least favorite years of my life. To be honest, the year coming doesn’t look any better.
Reading used to be a haven for me. I could escape into a world of magic and fiction and get lost there. I could visit the lives of people so strong, and brave, and pretend I was them for a few hours. It was like a wonderful dream I never wanted to let go of.
I’ve said before that I want to write novels because I want to be the person that created a world so enticing that someone would feel the same why I did when I read. Like the lives of the people on the pages were so wonderful that I didn’t want to leave it. I wanted someone to see my worlds and want to get lost in them forever.
Only when I started writing more regularly did I realize that the worlds I was creating, were very similar to the world I was living in. I started to wonder if those worlds, the ones so similar to my real life, were even worth writing about. How could someone get lost in these worlds when I, the one living in them, was trying so hard to escape.
I have not written anything for a long time. I am constantly inspired to, but when i sit down, pen and paper in front of me I cannot bring myself to write.
So to any fellow writers out there, experiencing this same feeling. The self doubt and the confusion, I hope this helps. I hope knowing someone out there feels the same as you helps.