I hate having to write these posts where I apologize for going all AWOL on you. I’d like to say it was because I was writing the next great American novel or could give you some sort of cool announcement like being pregnant (I’m not) or I’m going to be on a reality TV show (that’s another nope). Instead, if I’m being perfectly honest, I really just didn’t want to write. I would sit down in front of the computer or flip open my notebook, and I would feel anxious. I wanted something brilliant to come out, though I would have settled for halfway decent, but all that seemed to be playing in my brain was the constant refrain of –

“You should just stop. Nobody cares about your weird, random thoughts.”

“You are literally the worst writer ever.”

“You are getting on everyone’s nerves posting all this on social media.”

“You are a failure.”

My stomach would clench up, and my heart would race. I would start to write, and then I would delete everything in a moment of frustration. I tried to set a schedule for myself, but I’d mess it up and then throw my hands up in disgust and think, “What’s the point?” 

The anxiety gave me flashbacks to my childhood. I was constantly carrying around one of those 3 subject spiral notebooks, and I would write stories and dream about the day when I would finally write a whole book and publish it. People would know who I was, and I would finally get my voice out there rather than being the mousy, nice girl that no one ever seemed to remember. I would often enter creative writing contests in school or in magazines, and my hopeful, little heart would imagine just how amazing it would be when I won. I’d pour my soul into my piece, and I’d feel really good about it. This would be the one – the one that everyone would love and would win me acclaim and I’d probably be famous and get to meet other famous people. Best of all, I’d get to see my name printed on the front a hardback book or as a by-line in a newspaper or magazine. And every time, my hopes would be dashed. Every time, my heart would ache from the rejection.

It gets hard after awhile, but I can’t help but love writing despite how much it pains me at times. Even when I took a break from the blog, I’ve still been writing, trying to grasp again at that elusive feeling my younger self had when she’d write pages and pages in my hundreds of notebooks until my hand would cramp and my penmanship would degrade from careful and precise to crooked scrawls that even I could barely read, the words tumbling out of me faster than my hands could go. I keep hoping to capture the passion of an angsty teenage Sarah with her heavy-as-a-brick laptop when I’d write dramatic poems or confess my loves, my fears, and my deepest secrets behind the confines of a password-protected Microsoft Works document.

I didn’t want the hatred or anxiety to overwhelm my child-like love of this craft, the only thing resembling art that I can manage to do. And so, I stopped and gave myself some space and time to think and create without pressure. I bought myself a cute little notebook that made me giddy with anticipation to fill its pages, and I’ve been writing any time I feel like it. Some of the things that I’ve written on those pages may make it in the blog eventually. Some may stay hidden because I’m not ready to blast them out on social media where my mom and everyone else I know can read them and possibly judge me.

But I am willing to try again on this blog, though as I’m writing this I have no idea what that is going to look like. Maybe someday, I’ll be lucky enough to make a few bucks from this website, but I can’t stress out about that yet. Maybe I’ll figure out how to make a prettier web page or finally take the time to learn more about SEO. I don’t know. All I do know is that I want to write again, and that is a good place to start.