When a Writer Stops
I have written daily since the age of seven or thereabouts.
Whether it was a poorly crafted haiku or a simple short story, the words needed to flow. My hands were a conduit, the pen (or keyboard) — a vessel — the paper and eventually the computer, a means to one end before I picked up another beginning.
And then one day not too long ago, I stopped. Or at the very least, the words dried up.
My words, my prolificacy had reached a precipice that I likened to a blood clot, best left alone and undisturbed.
Walking away was hard.
And while I heard the echo of my former writing self regularly, I simply could not return to where I had been but rather, intentionally allowed the words and thoughts and barrage of emotions to settle again into a place where they could flow as they always had.
This break, much like the one I took prior to my latest professional reinvention, allowed me the space to grow into, rather than fight against.
In the quieter moments since then, I have consistently observed colleagues and fellow writers racing to pen the next Amazon best seller, blogging until they bleed in the name of SEO, tossing out grammatical barbs as if they are a badge of armor, pimping posts and posits and perspectives and positions.
It’s exhausting to watch ‘content’ become king where everyone is vying to do its bidding regardless of the quality.How can 'content' be king when everyone is vying to do its bidding? #purebloggingClick To Tweet
Quantity, it appears, is Queen and together with content, it rules the day.
When Danny Brown first challenged the journey that blogging (and in my mind, writing) has taken and simultaneously announced a return to its purest form, I felt as though the words could flow again.
Without prior restraints of deadlines, schedules and even editors, I felt free to be who and what I’ve always been – a writer.
Finally, this writer has found a new home; pure, unadulterated, genuine, real.
Time to reconsider the path.