I used to love writing stories.
My elementary school would not only encourage creative writing, but also required us to write and illustrate short stories into books we bound ourselves. When all the students had completed our future best-sellers, we laid them out on a table for our parents to come and “buy” them from us.
In middle school, I became obsessed with writing horror stories. I think it had something to do with my love for all things scary (except spiders) and being too young to read any of Anne Rice’s novels.
I had my heart set on a story involving a nurse who worked in a haunted hospital. You know, in one of those old school WWI hospitals. I vividly remember giving my friends my drafts to read and them begging for more. Not an exaggeration I swear. My ego wasn’t monstrous yet.
Though, after writing roughly 5 pages of my horror story, I tucked my college-ruled story book away for later editing.
I haven’t touched it since.
I can’t even force myself to read my own story because I’m so mad at myself for not completing even one draft of it.
So, I write this post today, after finding inspiration in the latest post from The Write Practice , in hopes of re-conjuring my lust for the written word. And because I’m admitting my writer’s block.
Writing isn’t even a chore even more. I think that’s why I don’t feel any remorse for writing for other people.
Because, when the day comes when I do write for the sake of my happiness and adventure (and getting paid for my work as credited to me and for my own audiences), I won’t need to be surrendering to writer’s block.
Then I will be content with writing my notebook horror story.