I’ve just been existing. Floating, waiting. Uninspired by anything around me. My writing became perfunctory, writing for the sake of writing. That isn’t necessarily bad but I haven’t connected with an idea in a long time. Or anything really.
I spent several hours sorting out my room the other day and came to my shelf of notebooks. What has always been a personal gripe of mine is that I continuously buy notebooks because they’re beautiful and wonderful and I never write anything in them. I keep them for shining stories, powerful poems and wonderful words. I keep telling myself that I’ll write a story and then write it out beautifully and make the notebooks works of art. But whether it’s work, my health or my general laziness, I have never got around to it and they just sit and gather dust. And I know that this is something I’m slowly applying to my whole life.
I’m living under the impression that if it isn’t perfect then there’s no point.
But one of my writer friends has been posting a lot about his novel and editing and something he wrote set off a spark deep inside. So I wrote a short piece for the first time in a long time. I pulled out one of my beautiful notebooks and started writing my words because even if they’re not perfect, they’re mine and they’re important. They don’t need to be perfect.