Late-night ramblings of a (self-proclaimed) writer…
Hi. I haven’t been around here in a while, but I’ve been busy letting myself be silently drawn to the strange pull of what I really love.
Remember when I said that when you learn to let go, the Universe starts to bring you to what you need? Well, the Universe has been gently nudging and then firmly pushing me the last few weeks and I finally listened. And it led me to a blog with the exact same quote I just posted on Instagram about my nostalgia after 10 years of blogging (Yes, I’ve been a writer for over 10 years, way back when we all still referred to climate change as global warming).
I used to write every single day for as far back as I can remember…and now, I haven’t written anything of substance in months – the longest time I’ve ever gone without writing. At first I thought maybe I had just lost practice because I don’t read as much as I used to, or perhaps that I simply no longer possess the creative ability to express myself in this way, or any of the millions of other excuses my mind started to create.
You might like: GoodReads
But today, I felt something, a memory, a dream, a familiar melody. And I realized that the real reason I stopped is because perhaps I’ve been a little scared. Scared to write from my heart in fear of what others would think now that my platform is more exposed, scared to let this art open me up again and show me what’s underneath, scared to try and scared to fail, and scared to expose and risk losing the pure joy I’ve been recently experiencing.
And then it occurs to me: is it more important to be good at doing what you love, or to feel good doing what you love?
The more I think about it, the more I realize how strange it is that art comes so effortlessly through messy emotion, and how it seems to just remain stuck when all is well; it’s almost like pain has to crack parts of you open in order for creative flow to break through it.
I know that many people don’t see writing as an art. And I imagine it makes a writer feel the same way as dancers feel when people say that dancing is not a “real sport”. But art is defined as any form of creative activity and expression, and for me, the times I write are when I feel the most at home and connected to myself.
My words are not perfect by any means – not even close – but they are real, they are raw, they are authentic and they are true to my core.
So that’s the honest truth, that I’ve just been scared. But the good thing about recognizing the truth is the ability it comes with to change moving forward. So here’s the truth about this summer: despite everything that has happened in my entire life, this has been one of the happiest and most memorable summers. And honestly, I’ve just been too busy enjoying these simple, precious moments in the sunshine with the people I love the most in the world.
And even when things haven’t been perfect, they’ve been lessons learned and memories made and they’ve been so imperfectly perfectly mine. These are the good ol’ days, the ones I’ll be sure to look back on in the future when life inevitably throws curveballs my way and when I can’t quite catch them in the way I hope or plan. This summer I was able to write my way back home, and for that I am eternally grateful.
I hesitate to refer to myself as a blogger since the definition has changed so much over the past decade. It used to refer to someone who shared their writing on an online platform with the intention of sharing their life or passions, to now becoming the trendy way to display unique beauty and makeup skills, photography and modeling the latest fashion styles in exotic locations as an influencer working with major brands (all of which I highly respect and have a great appreciation for but have little interest in doing myself). I just want to make it entirely clear that I am in no way implying anything negative and to be fair, this mainly only applies to beauty and fashion bloggers, but my whole point is that that’s what comes to mind nowadays when someone refers to themselves as a “lifestyle blogger”.
What I do know is that I am a writer, whether good or bad, and now that I’m back in touch with my writer identity, I don’t think I would or could ever stop writing. Whether it’s in my journal where a majority of my words remain hidden, or whether the words live to see the light of day on this blog, they often keep coming without discrimination or hesitation.
The universal truth that all writers can relate to and is that when inspiration strikes, you take it in whichever way you can, be it on the nearest napkin or the notepad on your night stand; you do not let it go because it’s sent from the divine and may never grace the eyes or ears of anyone in the world for eternity if you do not create it.
So, in a brief moment of premature excitement, I bid adieu to my writer’s block, however temporary it may be, since these things are sometimes impossible to foresee. It’s almost as if the words were always there, but sometimes suppressed within me as I convinced myself that writing is no longer for me, and now that I’ve broken down the barrier that held me back, the words are rushing like tidal waves washing over the blank space ahead, and what once seemed lost forever is now back in full force.
I look up to countless great writers and even modern day bloggers and by no means do I consider myself a professional, considering the innumerable flaws I can pick apart from my own writing myself, but these words come freely from deep within and I’d rather be a struggling writer artist than a professional with deadlines and headaches because I have faith that whoever is meant to see these words will, and whoever does not is simply not meant for them. But if I didn’t write at all, then I’d be doing a huge disservice to myself and any potential audience I may or may not one day have the capacity to build.
This is not to say that I ever quit or even considered quitting writing entirely, but just that I encountered severe writer’s block many times and lost practice over time and started to believe that maybe it is simply no longer meant for me. I distinctly remember the many nights I’ve had inspiration keeping me up at all hours of the night so whenever it’s gone, it’s only natural to wonder how long. But for now it’s back, however temporary it may be, and I am thankful and excited and fulfilled in a way that only the written word can fulfill.
You’d think that for someone who writes so often about writing it would be a potential career or side-hustle at the very least, but writing could never be my career because I enjoy it entirely too much to place any restrictions on the abounding chaos that effortlessly flows as an extension of my very personality, to uplift and inspire and ignite a spark of light within myself as I also hope it does for you.
