So my deal is pretty simple. I have been struggling to write for awhile. It has irritated me to no end. I have been royally frustrated in the highest. Yet somehow the words just would not flow. I would sit down indignant with the state of affairs, and swearing profanely that this time would be different. And each and every time, I would walk away ashamed at another failure to write.
I was unsure what the problem was. There were plenty of excuses. I am legitimately extremely busy with a full personal and professional life. I have a job that extracts everything I have mentally each and every single day. I have a burgeoning family that all have real needs that only an actively engaged husband and father can fulfill. In the course of putting the two together, it extracts everything I have most days and then some.
And yet somehow I want to write. I want to take the ideas I have and put them on the page. For the longest time it was my passion. In the beginning I wrote without any thought to the long term. I was just writing, because it was who I am. Putting my thoughts on paper was just what I did. It was my passion.
And then one day, I lost it. I am not sure when it happened for sure. I do know for certain that earning my first rejection slip had something to do with it. I am pretty sure it happened before then though. Somewhere along the way, the passion to transition and get my work published became more important than my passion for writing. And then when that transition was revealed to be folly with the rejection slip, I think I just gave up.
It is easy to quit. It is easy to let the inner critic win. I let it win for months after the rejection came. I had good excuses. I am busy. I am tired. I really should working on the work I get paid to do, than on something that won't see the light of day. And there were many many more. They were all very rational in nature, all very logical and linear. It makes sense to be about the things that make sense.
And yet somehow in that surrender, I felt more depressed than I ever felt when the rejection slip came. I felt like I was squandering something I had been given. I also felt like I wasting my essential gifting by hiding my 'talents' in the sand as it were.
I realized recently that it was about the loss of my initial passion that started all of this. I surrendered my first love for something I knew nothing about. I know now what I have to do, what is required. I need to just shut my yap, and rekindle my passion for writing without a care in the world for anything more. I don't really know how to do that candidly. I don't know how to recapture it, because I don't really grasp how I got to that initial place to begin with.
I have hashed out a rough plan though. I need to set really short term, highly focused goals. I need to sit down with the only goal being to capture the first sentence, with the hope of doing more. Maybe just maybe that will lead me to where I was before. I am not sure to be perfectly honest. I just know that I have to try.
I was unsure what the problem was. There were plenty of excuses. I am legitimately extremely busy with a full personal and professional life. I have a job that extracts everything I have mentally each and every single day. I have a burgeoning family that all have real needs that only an actively engaged husband and father can fulfill. In the course of putting the two together, it extracts everything I have most days and then some.
And yet somehow I want to write. I want to take the ideas I have and put them on the page. For the longest time it was my passion. In the beginning I wrote without any thought to the long term. I was just writing, because it was who I am. Putting my thoughts on paper was just what I did. It was my passion.
And then one day, I lost it. I am not sure when it happened for sure. I do know for certain that earning my first rejection slip had something to do with it. I am pretty sure it happened before then though. Somewhere along the way, the passion to transition and get my work published became more important than my passion for writing. And then when that transition was revealed to be folly with the rejection slip, I think I just gave up.
It is easy to quit. It is easy to let the inner critic win. I let it win for months after the rejection came. I had good excuses. I am busy. I am tired. I really should working on the work I get paid to do, than on something that won't see the light of day. And there were many many more. They were all very rational in nature, all very logical and linear. It makes sense to be about the things that make sense.
And yet somehow in that surrender, I felt more depressed than I ever felt when the rejection slip came. I felt like I was squandering something I had been given. I also felt like I wasting my essential gifting by hiding my 'talents' in the sand as it were.
I realized recently that it was about the loss of my initial passion that started all of this. I surrendered my first love for something I knew nothing about. I know now what I have to do, what is required. I need to just shut my yap, and rekindle my passion for writing without a care in the world for anything more. I don't really know how to do that candidly. I don't know how to recapture it, because I don't really grasp how I got to that initial place to begin with.
I have hashed out a rough plan though. I need to set really short term, highly focused goals. I need to sit down with the only goal being to capture the first sentence, with the hope of doing more. Maybe just maybe that will lead me to where I was before. I am not sure to be perfectly honest. I just know that I have to try.
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