“Are you still writing?”
I get that question a lot. And it’s always asked with a hopeful, positive tone of voice. I should be thankful that someone, anyone, is wanting to read what I have to say…instead, guilt kicks in.
Because the truth is, I’ve only written a couple times in the last twenty-one months. Prior to that, I was sitting down to write weekly.
I like writing.
I feel like me when I write. Or rather, felt like me.
“So, what does it mean if I stopped writing?” is a question I ask myself. Does it mean that I lost myself? Or a piece of myself?
I think so.
After Covid, and shut downs, and the racism conversation was heated up with George Floyd (I don’t mean to minimize it by calling it a “conversation”), and friends were laid off (including my sister, who was then out of work for months), and schools weren’t in session, and we still haven’t seen some family members in almost two years…and…and…and… it just felt like, who gives a shit what I have to say about anything?
I lost my voice.
I’m not sure how to get it back, other than to start writing, anything, again.