Ok, so maybe quitting writing is an overstatement. I did, and still do, write for Odyssey (which I love by the way) and I, of course, have to write academically, but it’s not the same as what I used to do. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been a writer. It’s what I am good at, it’s what people saw me doing, and in my heart, I know it’s what I was meant to be.
Words have always come easily for me: short stories, poetry; you name it I could write it. So what happened? How does someone who has dedicated most of their life to words just quit? It wasn’t a conscious choice, but there were a lot of moments that led up to it. Things led me to stop wanting to be that vulnerable in my use of words. Spilled ink is sometimes more honest than anything I can think of on a normal day, and I didn’t really feel like being vulnerable for a long time. I used to have these moments in class where I would find myself scribbling about things that weren’t on the lesson. I used to always have a next story or character in my mind and then slowly I had nothing. I had the next assignment and I had the next book to read, but I didn’t have anything to write about.
Eventually, I just stopped trying to write anything. However, in that short hiatus that I had, and that I’m still trying to get out, I’ve learned a lot more about myself and my writing than in any other moment in the last couple of years.
1. You can live without the one thing you thought you couldn’t.
There are things in life that we consider constants. Our talents are one of them. A writer was all I was for a long time and learning to define myself outside of that is still a struggle, but it’s a learning experience. I am a writer, but I am so much more than that. I am a really good teacher’s assistant. I’m a really good seller and an even better student. I am a stellar listener and a pretty good joke teller. I am a huge lover of terrible movies and underground music. I am so much more than just a writer.
2. Healing comes from different places.
I stopped writing when I started healing. I was going in circles for months, trying to find words that described what I felt, and ended up falling short. So I stopped trying to heal through words and found new ways to feel better. Healing came for me: from concerts and running. It came for me from learning new things about the world around me and myself. It came from new friends and new jobs. It came from things not related to my writing and it has been a wonderful ride.
3. Sometimes time off makes us better.
My words feel richer now. They feel like they’re mine again and like they mean something again. They feel truthful and lighter, and they feel right. Sometimes time off is all we need to discover what was missing the whole time.
4. People will (probably) always judge you by your writing.
This one has been such a good lesson to learn about my writing style. I try to keep things very impersonal when it comes to my public works. I don’t like bringing in my life into the things I write about, but it spills out, and in the process, anyone and everyone can read it and interpret it however they want. I’ve always known this, but I’ve never been boxed in by it until recently. My words mean something to me, but like I said before, they’re not all I am. Writing is cathartic and it’s saved me many times, but that doesn’t mean that my experiences are limited to the ones that I’ve chosen to share. Please judge my writing, but not my character, based on the words I choose.
5. Explaining that you’re a writer is worse when you’re not writing.
Are you still a doctor if you stop practicing? I guess. Are you still a writer if you stop writing? I have no clue. I still had characters floating around with their lives in my hand. I still had books of poems to get through and screenplays to edit, but did that count? I’m still a writer because that’s what I’ve always been. Explaining that you’re not writing anymore is hard though because there’s no easy explanation.
6. You can always come home.
Home for me will always feel like the middle of a notebook after scribbling 25 pages of cross-outs and ideas. Home for me isn’t a palpable place. It’s the place between the lines and between the spaces.
