I Forgot How to Write

So a few days ago I posted a blog thing whatever about my grievances with YA fiction. I had written it in the wee hours of the morning because I was sleep deprived and grumpy, and I remember publishing it, re-reading it, and thinking “this sounds stupid. ugh. whatever, I’ll leave it up.” and then I went to bed.

I checked into Mibba today out of habit, and I had nine comments on that post, and I kind of freaked out. Not like a “I’m so happy people are paying attention to me and engaging in dialogue about books” freaking out, more like “that was dumb why are people responding to the dumb things I said ugh I feel silly now” sort of way. Which needs a bit of explanation...

I’ve pretty much grown out and away from Mibba (not that I was ever that active, I don’t really fit well here). I don’t write much anymore because I’m so discouraged with the whole process and because I have the plot developing abilities of a ripe grapefruit. When I do put something on Mibba it’s the child of emotional spontaneity and a sudden urge to shout at a group of strangers.

So everything on my account right now (don’t go look, just take my word for it, please) is pure emotional, unedited gunk that I couldn’t give a shit about. I don’t want to try to write anymore, because I haven’t written anything substantial for more than a year. The more I TRY to write, the more I feel like I’m never GOING to write. And I can’t face that because writing’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life.

Anyway, when I saw those nine comments I remembered what I liked about writing. I liked putting something together and shipping it off to the world like a present. That’s not what I was doing when I wrote that blog entry, I was just ranting, but it reminded me of the process, the love I used to have for writing when I was little and the love that fell to pieces as I got older. I don’t understand how it could have gone so quickly, I’m not that much older than I was.

I’m just really sad. I’m sad that I don’t know that love for writing and telling stories and giving that gift anymore. I just don’t have anything to write about. I don’t have the story to tell, and it’s the most frustrating thing I’ve ever had to deal. I can’t write fiction, because I don’t have any stories. I don’t know what else to say about it, I don’t even know what I wanted to say in the first place, I’m just upset. Yeah. Okay. Advice appreciated but not mandatory. Meh.
June 23rd, 2014 at 10:47am