I haven’t written for myself in weeks.
Sometimes, life got in the way. Sometimes, a few hours escaping into an unfinished TV series or a video game seemed more promising. Most of the time, I’d get excited about writing and then just get so exhausted that writing a page didn’t seem likely.
I’d scroll through my old manuscripts instead, snipping away an edit here or there. I’d read past works, mutter a few “oh”s and “aww”s and then close the tab like shutting a giant tome, but instead of dust scattering, there’s only pixels, quiet, and the whir of my laptop overheating again.
I know I want to write again, to make the kind of art I find myself escaping into when anxiety is overwhelming — when I can’t sleep at night, I’m comforted by the stories that tell me that everything, for the most part, will be okay.
I want to write the stories that make good bedtime stories. I want to write the things that would help me when I needed them– and help others too.
I just have to walk to the end of the pier that is this hiatus, lanterns dimming as I pass them by.
And then, once I reach the end of the path, I’ll pick up my pen…