I feel like I’ve forgotten how to write.
I mean, obviously, I’m writing this, so the technical skills are there, but the creative side of it seems to be eluding me for some odd reason. It’s almost like I can’t remember how I used to put stories together in my head and then let them spill out through my fingers. I swear that once upon a time it felt effortless, or at least there was a process that required some effort, but it was there. I knew how to use it, how to make things fit together and work.
Now it feels almost as though I’m blind and unable to generate ideas at all. I stare at a scene I’ve written and think: “Now what? How do I start another scene?”
It’s weird. And upsetting.
Some would say it’s because I’m stressed. Others because I set my pants on auto-pilot and hope I don’t need to change them partway through. There are the daily demands of being a decent parent, the worries of “what-if” and “when” and “how will I deal with” that have now become a constant background hum in my brain.
But still. Writing is a refuge for me. It’s a way to hide from the ugliness of real life where I get to play and set the rules and where *I*, at least, am not disappointed in how things turned out. It’s supposed to be the one place I can hide from reality. The one place that’s supposed to be… easier, I guess.
Now it eludes me.
And I find this very troubling.