I define stop as lack of passion; not that (metaphorically speaking) the ink ran out or the well of imagination dried out, or, that my hands literally failed to write.
I have to be honest. Passionate writing comes rare to me since the death of my father a year ago. I supposed to get over of this drama. I used to see myself as a strong, aspiring woman who could easily pull herself up – even without the help of others.
I think this is the time to admit that I am no longer the courageous version of me. Not because I couldn’t stand for my own but because I couldn’t push myself back to the only thing that matters the most to me – writing.
A year ago, just a week after my father’s death, I found myself talking to my boss about some personal issues when suddenly I broke down. The reason? It was because I saw myself incapable of letting the passion flow. Of course, I got few advises here and there. He told me it would eventually come back. He himself was a writer too, by the way.
Months later, I still write but not for me, not for my happiness and definitely not for my cause but for the money. I know, I know, that’s a shame for a writer to admit – afterall, we’re all about passion, aren’t we? The last months had been, well, idle times. They have been the I-do-what-I-gotta-do-to-pay-the-bills months. Writing deliverables are still sent with the highest possible qualities just without any personal connection to them, whatsoever.
I think the worst part is….. not getting excited what I has to write next. Inspiration doesn’t come easy these days. I mean, I did the walk, the talk, the trek, the beer, the workplace reformatting and all of those – but hell, my trigger is not here anymore – that trigger was my father.
I remember the times when I get excited just by talking to him about my next project; may it be personal or for a client. I remember jogging off early in the mornings and coming back home with a warm cup of coffee prepared by him. Most of all, I remember that I promised him a bestselling novel just a minute before his last breath left him
What I don’t remember is the feeling of being inspired; that passionate feeling that makes you get up in the middle of the night just to write, those moments when a character whispers to my head and makes me write them and most of all, that feeling of being able to connect between reality and fantasy.
I miss it all.
For I have left myself when I stopped writing. Now, I think I am just fulfilling duties but not the responsibilities of a REAL writer.