Freedom

It’s a strange moment when you stop writing.

I’d been convincing myself that I was playing the role of extrovert. I was out making friends and being social and going out for dinners and happy hours and working out, but I realized I wasn’t any happier because there was something missing. I couldn’t figure out what it was exactly, just that something was off and I wasn’t sure what. But every time I sat down to look at my writing or opened a journal I was at a loss as to what I was supposed to talk about. I know what I didn’t want to talk about: The current drama in my life. Well, I wanted to journal about it, but not share it. I wanted to discuss more positive things. I wanted to stick to my brand, and be the sunshine and happiness in people’s lives. I didn’t want to make people sad, I wanted to inspire them.

 

I mean, let’s be honest, in the world of fiction I want to crush the reader’s soul so they come out fresher and clearer on the other side, I want people to have experienced and learned something, but in the world of blog posts, I wanted to inspire. I wanted people to think and feel like they can and would be better than they are.

So because I didn’t feel that way myself, I fled. I ran away to the social aspects of the world and convinced myself and others that the reason I wasn’t writing is because a writer can only write what they know, and I needed to know more things. The best way to know more things was to go out and experience them, ergo, I was doing nothing wrong by not writing. I was simply following through on what all writers know and are aware of. I was going out and making friends and instead of creating content for online, I was entertaining my closest people.

And to be fair, I wasn’t exactly wrong. I am now closer to my extroverts, but I left many others in the dust in my quest to experience only the joys of living and completely ignoring and bypassing the rest of life. I went on a personal odyssey to only experience the flighty joys of life and flee from anything that required any emotion that wasn’t happiness. Who has time for sadness when things are already sad? Not I. I needed joy and friendships and love. And liquor.

But all it did was burn me out, and make me feel vulnerable, and insecure, and like a big piece of my life was left behind. I missed my community and close friendships to the introverts in my life I’d been ignoring as I hunted for flights of fancy, dinner parties, boys, and all-nighters, until I realized I can combine them.

As my life has changed so drastically from what it was so many months ago, it seems my writing style and purpose has also changed. I no longer want to continue with what I was doing before, and perhaps that’s a short term avoidance of the past and I may return to the children's books collecting dust on my shelves, but more likely, I’m moving forward with newer and fresher ideas.

A single girl’s life in the city is not a fresh idea, but the way I’m writing it will be. And what story hasn’t already been told? Tell me that.  

And so we begin Chapter One, where I turn my experiences the past few months into what I can only hope ends up as a happily ever after, but who really cares either way? If it isn’t, it will only be a better and more interesting tale.

So stay tuned. We’re switching into third gear.

All my love,

L.B.