I stopped writing. I just gave it up, suddenly. It was towards the end of October. I had sent my latest manuscript to my agent, and then as though I had stepped on the handle of a shovel, the metal scoop came flying up and knocked the writing right out of my head.
We always read, write everyday, even if it’s just a sentence. A writer must write! Daily! Don’t ever stop. Stop a story, put it away, but don’t you ever dare stop writing!!!!
Ha Ha, I did! I went against everything! I DIDN’T WRITE. Anything I posted (stories) on social media, even this blog, was written before October. So I SAT! I sat and sat, not with a Cat in the Hat, but I sat, and I didn’t write.
I felt things that I never felt about writing before. I felt an urge to write (not the normal urge, nope, this was the fire on the back of firecracker). I felt like something was missing inside of me. I felt pain. I felt heartbreak for myself and words that were trapped. I felt the need to write. I missed telling a story. For so long I have wanted to write for others to read my stories, and I still do, but I was feeling the need simply for myself to tell a story (does that make any sense??) I felt depressed that I was not writing.
So why didn’t I just start back up? Why not end the “pain” so to speak?
Because I was learning something about my writing, and that was what I needed. I needed to tell myself that my writing mattered, even if only to me. This break showed me how much writing is me and how much of me is writing.