Writer’s Block Journal #1

Today is a drag.

I don’t feel like writing anything (I’ve been stuck in the writer’s blocks for months now. And by months I mean legit almost more than a year). And I don’t see any signs of pulling myself out of this jungle of writer’s block thingy. How do authors do it? I can barely even write five sentences before wanting to poke my eyes out?!?

Then again, maybe… I wasn’t mean to be an author after all. Maybe I’m just meant to follow this one path set out in front of me and continue running on it until I succeed. Or at least, until I no longer fail…

Even now, I am so careful in what I write, my words won’t flow as smooth and there’s just so much shit in me that just… Won’t come out on paper.

Has my creativity taken a permanent dive into the ocean Icarus fell into? Have I lost the touch of heavenly storytelling that I had once possessed? Am I not longer the raconteur I had prided myself in being?

Maybe this is how my writing journey ends? Not as a world-famous author finally taking a permanent hiatus after releasing her fifth book and stepping into a director’s role. Maybe my story ends without any flourish, rather dull, as a washed-up writer, with nothing to show for her “talent”. Maybe this was just the way it ought to be.

Because it’s not like I haven’t tried being a good writer. Or haven’t tried to make it big. I’ve submitted manuscripts to publishers and short story contests and have tried my best to reach out to whoever will read my story for any kind of endorsement.

Maybe I think too highly of myself and my writing.

I guess I’m not writing about anything world-shattering so it makes sense. I’m not writing about current issues, pandemics, racism, war, end of the world. All I write are flimsy love stories with a twist and baseless fantasies. Who even wants to read that, right?

Maybe I should stop trying to write.

But… if I stop writing what am I then? My entire personality, my identity, is me as a writer. If I’m no longer writing, what even am I doing? Am I even alive? Am I even breathing?

How harsh realities do appear when I’m all alone with my mind as a companion.

My reflection becomes distorted with every word I think,

My pains amplified in a beautiful display of self-torture.

What have even written up there *rolls eyes*

Why am I even writing this instead of working on my novel/short story? Should I even be working on a novel/short story? Who’s going to read even? The computer robots that check grammar and vocabulary?

What’s the point of it all even?

I was never meant to be a writer.