being my own road block

Being a writer is not easy. I’m not sure why I ever had the notion that it would be. Maybe because it’s something I really enjoy–so I thought it should come naturally. But it’s been anything but the case.

I’ve been listening to a lot of The New Yorker: Fiction podcasts lately. And I wish I could remember which writer said this, might have been A.M. Homes, but she said that writing was a terribly difficult experience. It was the furthest thing from easy. I wanted to hug her.

I keep staring at my pencils and writing journal–the notebook I use for all my free writing and pretty much all of my creative writing. I keep staring at it, and the blank pages. The fact that most of what I’ve written lately are one or two line notes. I don’t think I’ve written a full story, or even attempt to start a story, since June. And it’s killing me.

I think I started drawing panda pictures just so I could pretend like I had a creative outlet and could ignore the fact that I wasn’t writing. Because how can you be a writer if you’re not actively writing? School starts in a month, and I just don’t want to be embarrassed by my lack of writing. And it’s just me that’s keeping myself from writing. I’m my own road block here.

But I feel like what I’m going through is not dissimilar from what other writers go through. Or anyone who has a creative passion. There’s a lot in there–so many stories to write–that right now they’re all bottlenecked and I’m basically taking any excuse not to write, not to go through what for me is mentally and emotionally draining process. It’s physically draining too. I get done writing something and I just want to nap and not use my brain for a while.

I know this is what I’m supposed to be doing. I know it’s something that I love doing. I just can’t get myself to buckle down and just write. The more I sit and look at my writing journal, the harder it gets.

Basically I just took 355 words to say: writing is freaking hard and I’m really struggling with it right now.

I see people like the wonderful Abby, who just self published two books, and think “why am I not doing this?” I know I have it in me. I just have to crack the shell and do it.

Please. Someone lock me in a room and don’t let me out until I write five stories.