Really, this is what happened. I was on a roll and felt like I’d written some decent things. Everyone tells you writing is hard work, and this is true, but you have to write for it be hard. It’s not that hard if you don’t do it, which is what I have not been doing for the last almost two weeks. Plus I started asking myself a bunch of questions like, “who even reads this?” and “what if it’s nobody?” and “does it even matter?” My downward spiral had begun. The voices were active and loud and I was beginning to pay them some attention.
Then I got sick. Nothing serious or life-threatening, but I have felt horrible for almost two weeks. I won’t disgust you with all the gruesome details, but suffice it to say there’s been antibiotics that didn’t work, lots of coughing and sleeping, feeling terrible, sleeping, no energy, a new antibiotic, more sleeping, more tiredness. Blah blah blah. I had a sinus infection that took me out. I’ve had too much down time on my hands and the voices got louder.
“Why are you even writing?” “No one is reading your blog.” “This will never amount to anything.” “You’ll never have a platform or write a book.” On and on it goes, and another day goes by that I don’t write. Some of it’s true. I have a tiny little blog that my mother and some good friends read occasionally. The truth is I process life by writing and talking. To spare my sweet husband, I need to write. To soothe my own harried mind, I need to write. Whether anyone ever reads anything I write or not. I need to write for me.
So I’m going to get back at it.
Flannery O’Connor once said, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”
I need to be writing again. Whether or not I feel like it. Even when I’m sick. Especially when the voices are loud and convincing. I guess it’s a discipline, like anything else. Why is this so hard?