So this book of poetry I’m featured in is an actual book somewhere. It exists as a tangible object. It went from an idea to a thing… I guess that is what creation is. I get a bit of a buzz out of it to be honest.
I was approached about submitting stuff for an earlier book. And I stumbled. I hadn’t written anything in ages and it just all seemed too hard. Plus even though I was contacted there was no guarantee that I would be accepted. It felt like I was setting myself up to be rejected and my skin was much too thin.
But there was another opportunity and I wrote a few things and I raided my archives for the rest. I was surprised then too because writing was an alchemy I thought I had long lost the secret to.
The muse stopped showing up, and I stopped showing up and over time it just seemed easier. Easier to not show up. Easier to not write. Easier to watch TV. Easier to fill my days with minutiae and pretend writing was never something I was interested in.
There are few things as truly soul destroying as pretending to be “fine” when you’re not, as pretending that something (or someone) important to you actually isn’t. It is a betrayal of the self and you probably won’t even realise why you feel so crummy because you haven’t admitted there’s a problem (you’re a blocked writer). And as the old adage goes admitting you have a problem is the first step in solving it. Perhaps writing about it is the second.