Content warning: discussions of mental illness
Being able to write has always kind of ‘been my thing’; it’s what I’m good at. One of the few things, anyway. I never really thought I was good at much, but writing was the one thing I could pride myself on.
Growing up, I would read and read and hole myself away and read some more. Then, I started writing and writing. I had this little pink notebook full of poems and scripts and just little notes. Then one day, poof. It was gone.
It was like I had writer’s block, except real writers will tell you that writer’s block isn’t a thing and it’s just you being lazy. It wasn’t laziness, not for me. It was depression.
Instead of getting all my words out on paper, I’d store them up in my head and whenever anyone would ask how I was, I’d use the same line, “I’m fine”. Except I wasn’t fine. Not for a long time.
Then, one day, not too long ago, I picked up a pen. And I wrote. And then I opened up my computer and I typed. And typed and typed. And it didn’t stop.
The words just flowed as if some magical spring had sprung up out of the ground and spilled my words. I let emotions free. It was messy, it was crude but it was writing.
Nowadays, if I have writer’s block, it really is down to laziness. Depression is still there and it will most likely never go away, but laziness is something I can control and I don’t need to have writer’s block.
If I open a notebook, the words will come. If I sit at a keyboard, I tap tap tap until there’s words spewed everywhere.
Don’t be lazy. Don’t have writer’s block. Open up that first page and let the pen guide you.