Two weeks left to 2019 and my spell-check app (yes, I use one to avoid typos) – the app says I’ve written two million words this year. That’s probably an exaggeration; it doesn’t identify unique documents, just each word that passes through its filter. I could have opened a file five times and it would count each writing session from the start. So let’s say I wrote 400,000 words. That’s about 800 letter-sized pages, single-spaced. Around half of that would have been in private correspondence, a quarter has been published, and the last quarter might be making its way to publication. Not bad for someone who writes for a living.
The thing about being a paid writer is that you write mostly for other people. You have a brief and a topic, you stick to a specific tone and style. Sure, bits of your personality still shows through – that’s part of the creative process. But for the most part, it’s someone else’s story. You are just one peg in the marketing engine that keeps the internet bloated with words for people to consume – often mindlessly.
I wanted to update my blog a few times this past year but just didn’t manage to do it. Part of the reason is not having the time. But If I’m honest with myself, the real reason is that I didn’t feel up to it. Churning out words for someone else has made inking my own thoughts less palatable. I didn’t think it was possible, but I got sick of writing.
No, it’s not writer’s block. It’s just this general aversion to scribing ideas for the joy of communication. I’d look at my laptop and think, “Now’s a good time to blog.” Then the same voice would go, “Ugh, no. I don’t want to write.” Once or twice, I’d sit at my desk and try to write a draft that has been running in my head. I’d type a few sentences and then stop, utterly dissatisfied. It was much better when the words were floating freely in my mind. I read what I’ve typed and feel disgusted with myself.
Those times, my writing didn’t have the rhythm and poetry it used to have. The words didn’t flow and everything sounded so dry. I’ve lost the art of writing like it matters. It saddened and scared me at the same time.
I’ve forgotten what it was like to write from the heart, to pour my soul into tiny, duo-syllabic words. (Well, if you know me, you’d have noticed that I use three to four-syllable words more often than the average. But I digress.)
So today, I write. Not for a client, not for an agency, not for a paycheck.
Today, I write for myself. And today, I write for the world. For those who care about beauty in language and mystery in the unspoken.
Today, I write to feed my soul, and maybe also the souls of others like me.
Today, like every other day, I write.
And I write in a way that is unlike most other days.
Today.
