It’s been a while since I wrote something other than fiction. Actually, it feels like it’s been a long time since I wrote anything. This might or might not have anything to do with… I don’t really know what it has anything to do with, really. I just know that these days, I don’t usually feel like writing about anything specific. And I’ll talk about that in a bit.
First, I think it’s time I stopped keeping the secret and spilled.
Over half a year ago, I started learning to knit, simply because I could. And, honestly speaking, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Once I finished an actual project (which was a hat for my cousin), crocheting was suddenly at the front of my mind.
I can’t say I’ve made crocheted anything grand yet, but just the thought of the beauties gets me going. I’m planning on making a granny square blanket.
Time and again, I’ve wanted to write about my newfound love for yarn, but I just couldn’t get my thoughts together.
And that brings me to what I’ve been holdig back for at least four months now.
This all started when my mother said she doesn’t think fiction is worth much. Her words terrified me. Fiction is something I love, after all.
Fast forward to now, whenever I hear about something tragedic, and the people who are telling me are completely heartbroken, or appear to be so, it takes me a long, and I mean an unusually long time to feel what they feel. Barely anything bothers me at all, and I realised a long time ago that for me to write about anything I have to care about it on a personal level.
Maybe that’s why, I write less and less sharable content, and less and less content in general, these days. No, this isn’t another bout of my seemingly ever present writers’ block. It’s just a realization of what I need to actually get me pumped. But it’s still interfering with what and how I write.
After a fiasco at a prize giving ceremony for a writing competition I helped organize (because I’m the co founder of the club that hosted it– well, whaddya know? another secret), I wrote about the fiasco. While I like how it turned out, I’m not anywhere near ready to put it out into the world.
And since then, I find myself wanting to write about things that happen to other people. But I can’t, because when I try to justify their actions, I feel as if I’m lying.
Any ideas on how I should tackle this situation? Have you ever been in a situation simialr to this? Do share in the comments.