Writing Because I Think I Need To

I just got really sad about the fact that I haven’t written anything in ages.

I literally mean ANYTHING. Aside from some quick and to-the-point emails, my writing career has been lacking.

I read a blog called Thought Catalog about twice a week. I go through the archives and bookmark my favorites and delve really deep into each writer’s thoughts and feelings. I always wonder, “Why can’t I think/write/be like that?” I think, “I know how that feels.” I literally consume this blog for all its worth and yearn for more every time.

I don’t think about writing as much as I used to. When I was a) an angsty teenager, b) in a completely unhealthy relationship, and/or c) in college, I felt like I had all the material in the WORLD to spew words over. I wrote because I thought I was edgy. Then I wrote because I needed to, because I could never speak aloud the words I was writing. Then I wrote because I spoke too much and told too many stories and my friends would react in peculiar (or completely respectable) ways.

But now, when I’m completely comfortable in my own skin and emotionally healthy and Bachelor-degreed, I can’t bring myself to put words down on paper. Things, so many things, have happened lately that, five or four or three or two years ago, would have been fodder for disconnected journal entries and stream-of-consciousness poetry. But I don’t write. Instead, I simmer.

I needed writing. It was a necessary act, like breathing or eating or digging a hole in the sand with your toes. I couldn’t LIVE if I didn’t write. Even a year ago, I wrote almost constantly. Was it because I needed something to do? Not much has changed in that department (I’m busy, but not overwhelmingly so and I’m often bored enough to watch the entire series of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations on Netflix). Was it because I had something to say? My writing has never been something I share excessively, so it wasn’t like I wrote to tell anyone anything. Was it because I was mad, sad, angry, lonely, or depressed? I’ve felt all of those emotions, often thought of as the root of all great writing, in the past three months and not a word has dropped on to a page because of it.

I don’t have the answer. I don’t know why I wrote, and I don’t know why I haven’t written.

What I do know, now, is that I yearn for words. I always have, and I still do, even if those words aren’t my own. I may not have put those words down onto the page myself, but I still connect with them, foster them, embody them, and worship them. The written word has always been sacred, to me, and even if I don’t write like it’s going out of style, I still appreciate those who do, and can, and are.