Coming off the holidays is hard for lots of people, but seemed to be a bit harder for me this year. I haven’t written any new material since September, but at least I had my book to toil with. But with it out with my readers, I’ve been twiddling my thumbs for the past month.
I went through a similar stage around this time last year, but I thought it had more to do with the fact that I’d moved from New York back to DC. Moving is the worst, and it takes a lot of me. Sure, I moved again four months ago, but I figured I’d be cured of the subsequent writer’s block by now.
I’m never entirely sure where writer’s block comes from for me. Sometimes it actually is fatigue: going hardcore on the book to get it to my readers sort of wiped me out (think of re-living the first 30 years of your life in a few days. Yeah.). Other times, it’s been boredom (exclusively writing about myself for so long is actually kinda dull because my life is not *that* interesting). Other times, it’s fear, or at least a questioning of why I’m doing this.
I think this bout of writer’s block has been a combination of those three, especially the last one, and especially because I’m looking for a job now. So, I reminded myself of my MO: I have nothing to be afraid of. Especially not writing because it’s not like writing can hurt me. I can delete what I don’t want, in fact.
So, I started a new piece, an essay that’s been blowing around my brain in some form for over six months, exploring giving and why I can’t seem to do it all that well, even when I want to. It’s a start and I’m happy about that. I want to finish some pieces I’ve been dragging my feet on, but I also want to start this year properly, by moving *forward.*