I’ve been calling it Writer’s Block, in all caps. It’s been nearly a year since I have written anything here, or any poetry, or anything really. It is not for lack of time, for I firmly believe that we make time for what we prioritize. It is not for lack of ideas, since my brain is buzzing all (allllll) the time with ideas, thoughts, analyses, and feelings that need to be parsed, shared, or dumped.
I’m not a hundred percent sure why I haven’t written. Overwhelm? Well, it has been a pretty momentous year. Perhaps that’s it.
How about fear? What if no one reads what I write? What am I hoping to accomplish, anyway?
So now you see why I write, and why I haven’t been writing.
I write for that person who says, “Me too.” I write for that person who needs to hear they aren’t the only one. Even if I never hear from them, I write because I know the comfort of “me too,” and I believe someone out there hears me.
I write because otherwise the thoughts begin to spill over and become a jumbly mess.
I haven’t been writing because, sometimes, I’ve been concerned I actually am the only one. I know this isn’t true because I have the blessing/curse/resource of social media and I can suss out “me too” stories like there’s no tomorrow. But that is logic, and writing for me is anything but logical.
Writing is what I use because we don’t have Dumbledore’s Pensieve. My pen and my keyboard are my wand and the words and thoughts and feelings are left safely on the page. I can always go back to them, I can always review. In the meantime, the buzz-buzz-buzz of thoughts in my brain are relegated somewhere safe and secure.
So for today, I will write. Even a small amount. And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow – I shall remember that it is ok to write small amounts.
And someone, somewhere, may be thinking, “Me, too.”