There are many things writers write about, or talk about to their writing friends. Some of them have to do with the challenges of writing or having a book published or simply writer’s block. This is a normal course of events that happens with every person who writes.
Then there are the days (and they can be days) when, no matter what you do, you simply can NOT write. I know; I have been there for some time. It is a mental fog; this horrible feeling that I will not be able to re-create the magic I have had for some time.
Not to say I haven’t been writing, but it’s a pushed style of writing. I am writing not because I am enjoying the process but rather because I have to. It’s not simply that I can’t put the words down, but I’m having trouble making them feel unique. That is almost impossible when my own mind feels like a huge gray fog.
This is a problem. I don’t want to put a label on the trouble right now, but I can describe how hard it is to get up in the morning, and sit at a desk and second guess myself. Not in terms of editing or phrase choice in a particular paragraph, but rather if I am meant to be a writer.
Never mind doing a reality check; I probably do too many of these, where I tell myself where I am and what I am doing, and these days it is more “realistic” than what others around me might believe. I have feelings of loss, and also of some sort of blunt pain, but this has been ongoing for months now.
I am in a place where most writers would not want to be.
This has proven more of a challenge on both my writing and my life. Yes I’ve published a book, but I feel as though no one who I want to care about it does. This gray fog hasn’t lifted, and it’s becoming a bit murky at times. I can always say at least I have my writing, or my friends and family, but they often don’t understand this dull ache.
I still write, but there seems to be this lack of passion for my work that scares me. I’m not saying I won’t get through it, but it’s hard to consistently tell myself that this will make me a better writer or person. It could be the gray fog I have or the slow descent into a very bleak place that I don’t want to be found, where my voice is not heard.
It’s not about money, but peace and joy that I suppose no one really expects to get. I don’t want to suggest that writing isn’t a peaceful thing to me, but it’s the mist of not knowing, or maybe knowing, what to write but something I can’t simply do as well as I hoped I could.
I enjoy my writing, and I do hope that this heavy fog will lift.