Updated: Feb 22
When I was younger, I would write all the time. I have vivid memories of sneaking composition notebooks, which we always had in excess at my house, to school and scrawling chapters across the pages sloppily during class. My friends would slide the thinly bound marble notebook around our little circle and marvel at the stories I had built for us. This was our guilty pleasure.
That was in middle school. My first attempt at a novel was about a girl who had been kidnapped while with out her friend. She stumbled onto her family’s lawn years later, pregnant and bruised, but ready to rejoin society as best she could. I can tell you the seemingly elementary story line from memory, but I was shattered when I lost that book and all my work.
For a while, I had been writing poetry. Most of my middle school years I was being teased (I think bullying is too harsh a term, because it wasn’t as bad as I want to make it seem). I would write poetry because there was so much I wanted to say but didn’t know how. Writing, for me, has always been comforting. To the point where my mother and I would write each other letters, emails, and texts to communicate. My words were always just a little bit better when I had time to make them pretty.
During my sophomore year of college, I decided I wanted to publish something. I scoured every diary, google drive file, flash drive, email and message I had access to and pulled together the finest poems I could find. Many of them were about the dark recesses of my mind, and thus, I organized them into a collection, Deadroses.
Deadroses is named after a song, by Blackbear, of the same name. The song is, what I’d consider, a perfect embodiment of my own inner thoughts towards myself and those in my own life. Dead roses signify something dead or broken, the end of a relationship. This book, which I’d stitched together from the darkest and most unsure moments of my life, signified the end of my relationship with my depression. Not to say it’s completely gone, but it’s like an ex you have to let go of. I’d begun to cut ties.
That was back in 2018, and now in 2020, I’m on a tentative break from writing. I still write a poem here and jot down a novel idea there, but I haven’t allowed myself to sit down and begin a new project. Why? Well, in May I will graduate from a wonderful university with my Bachelors of Arts in English with a concentration in Creative Writing. My daily routine consists of getting up, going to classes, going to work, and coming home to binge on whatever pops up on my Youtube channel and scrolling through TikTok until I fall asleep.
Even when the inspiration strikes and I’m able to write a poem or two, they feel empty. They don’t have the same life that the poetry I write while I’m in the throes of living pulsate with. I love writing, but I took a break because I want to commit to it the way it deserves. I wouldn’t give my lover a half-assed love, so I could never do the same to the act of writing that I love so much.
Like all good things, this break will come to an end. And I have faith that this break will only renew my passion and push me to experiment with life so my art will be even more palpable. I want my writing to breathe, live, and move through this world so fiercely that complete strangers can feel my words caress their ears and settle with their spirit. Something that’s only accomplishable through intense emotions and very real experiences. So, for now, I’m focused on living my life. Getting through each day with new eyes and feeling things for everything that they are.
Writing, to some, is just an art. But to me, it’s everything.
That’s why I took a break from writing.