My writing burn out has had me strangely reeling for a while now. I needed to step back and reevaluate what I was doing and more importantly how I was doing it. Oddly, no matter how burned out or overwhelmed I became, I still had this need to write—even if it was nonsense.
I started writing poetry when I was pretty young. I would guess around 9 and it has been a mainstay ever since. I have notebooks full of poems. Poetry has been a sort of easy release for me—a way of expressing myself in the moment and letting go of it.
A day or so ago I sat down and Free Write, the poem that precedes this post, came out. I didn’t think much of it, it was on my mind and so I wrote. I wrote about the ease poetry lends me. The freedom of it. I figured no one would comment or even pay attention. This is my ‘novel’ blog after all, so who cares about me writing poetry?
But, that wasn’t, and isn’t, the case. When the first comment came in, I remembered why I write. I can’t even express how wonderful a revelation that was and is.
I remembered that my words matter. My thoughts, my ideas and reflections, resonate. They touch people in some way. And in the end, that is why we write, because we hope that what we have to say, will be what someone else needs or wants to hear.
So in this light, that was always in front of me but I lost sight of, I regained my momentum and my perspective on my novel and on my writing in general.
Thank you poetry gift…now I know where to turn.