I am a Writer, damn it.

They (the ones who know, the ones who are certain, those we look to for insights) say to be a writer, you must write.

When the election results came in, I had help. My help was NaNoWriMo. I’d finally committed to participating in it. I said I would reach the word count goal and I would finish a novel. When the month ended, I’d reached my goal.

Despite being overcome with negative emotion, I’d done it. I finished the goal and went on during the month of December to finish the novel. The first draft was completed and I thought, “I can do this.”

It’s now the end of January and I’m writing nothing. My time on any device seems to always include an update about the state of our world. I vowed to myself to no longer keep my head in the clouds. I would stay alert, be aware, keep up to date. Become engaged when I’m needed. Act when necessary. Call my representatives. Resist. Protest.

Do you know what my upset and anger have gotten me? The death of my creativity. An end to dedicated writing times and/or days. I have no drive. I have no passion for the page. I keep searching for it. Absorbing, consuming, seeking out that spark. I’m left with emotional roller coasters and the overwhelming urge to hug and hold my people close. To snuggle and clutch and savor the company of the very few humans who make my life feel still worth living.

So how do people do it? How are fiction writers still writing?

I wonder if you’ve all got stories plotted and planned with amazing morals and life lessons our country desperately needs.

And here I sit … my idea about an orphaned witch with surprising untapped powers seeming ever-so unimportant. So I typed this little blurb in my shiny new blog – the same blog I’ve given no one and nothing a link to – just to say … this isn’t the final word. I will find my muse again. I will find the passion again. I will write. I am still a writer.

I’m just a writer interrupted for now.

#resist #downwithapathy #punchanazi



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