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About 4 years ago, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. I took my prescribed medication and it helped tremendously. My panic attacks and other symptoms mostly went away and I felt so much better. Except when it came to my writing. My mental health was great, but my creative muscle was numb.
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“The Killing” is my favorite show. If you know me at all, you’ve heard me mention it countless times. I watch it over and over and over again. People who have seen it totally get it. It’s one of those shows that just sticks with you forever. But if you haven’t seen it, let me tell you a little bit about it.
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How do I navigate that? Writing about difficult things that will paint someone or a group of someones in a really negative light. But at the same time, it's the truth. They always say the truth hurts, right? I mean, if you behave a certain way and hurt people, do you get the benefit of anonymity? I feel like the answer is no.
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To be honest, I’m hesitant to even write this post and announce it publicly. I’m not great at sticking with things. I’ve been “going to” write a book pretty much my whole life. This is the first time I’m actually attempting to put real words down on paper.
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Who do you write for? Why do you write? The answers aren’t always the same.
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No one told me motherhood would be so noisy. That silence was a commodity. That questions were an endless, relentless, renewable resource. If I could figure out how to make cars run on questions, I'd be a trillionaire.
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I feel the most free when... the ocean is spread out before me. Waves crashing with fury, like a roller coaster speeding down the track. I don't want to get in, but I like to watch it fly.
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What happens when the words don’t come no matter how hard you try?
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I keep looking at the blinking cursor. It's the gate keeper to the page beyond and I can't seem to get past it. Bribes, threats, sweet nothings whispered under my breath. And yet, there it blinks, seeming to mock me with its silent stare.
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