I want so badly to write something cohesive. But I have no cohesion to offer you, dear reader. I have only my scattered thoughts and emotions.
Perhaps we’ll talk about my writing. That’s something I haven’t had the chance to discuss in so long. But maybe it only feels long to me.
I want to write. I was struck with inspiration this morning as I recounted my next story. I could feel the impact of it. I love these characters. I love what they represent. I love their stories.
This is normally the point in the year when I would be planning my next story. NaNoWriMo will soon be upon us.
…but I am not doing NaNoWriMo this year. For the first time in six years, I won’t have a new manuscript come December. It doesn’t feel right.
But even if I were to write, what would it come to? I’m not ready for this new story I’m developing. So, would I write a charming romance? I have no romance left in me. I have been drained of my feelings.
I would likely write a cynical piece exploring political themes and social practices. Potentially the next great dystopian hit? Unlikely.
So I sit here. Not writing. Not even blogging, because I have found myself incapable of finishing the thirty drafts sitting patiently for their moment in the sun. So many ideas, simply…blocked.
Am I stuck?
I keep gathering ideas. But I can’t seem to write them.
What did I do today?
I played guitar for the first time in months. As quaint as the ukulele is, I do prefer the guitar. The robust sound permeated my room and gave me the freedom to sing, to yell, to scream.
Perhaps I scream when I play. If the music is lively enough to cover my voice, I increase my tones until every part of me has joined in the making of music, of this song. I can’t imagine what it sounds like outside of my room. But within my room, it is me in the purest form. Playing something meaningful. Singing, not to sound beautiful, but to feel. To say something. Saying something may come with a voice crack, or the scraping of my vocal range. But I don’t care. It’s me, and that’s all that matters.
I wish I could take my guitar back to school with me. There is no place to put it, and it is unprotected in its soft case. And I’m sure no one within one hundred yards would appreciate it.
But how I wish I could be myself.
I only shine through briefly through the ukulele. The light strumming you hear, the gentle tone of my voice. That is a piece of me.
But I am passionate, deep, feeling, everything reaching down within my soul. Guitar reflects that.
I miss writing. I miss pouring myself and my experiences out onto a page under the guise of fictional characters. I miss my Becker and all of his friends. I miss crafting scenes. I miss being who I was. Who I am.
And I wish for the day that I can just be me, and those who would choose to walk alongside me in life would find me that way.
I’ll be the girl bellowing in her dorm room, pouring everything she is into the song she sings.
I apologize if it sounds obnoxious.
But it is who I am.
And if it wasn’t midnight right now, I would pull out my guitar and be.