When I was younger I spent hours writing. I’d close the door, let the music play and what came out, came out. I had passion, I had drive, I had desire. But nearly everything I wrote had a dark bent to it, very dark. I was writing from and through my pain, it was the only thing I knew.
Many years ago, I stopped writing. You could call it writer’s block, and in many ways it was. But really, two things happened that caused me to stop: 1) Someone was telling me what and how to write, and 2) I was working on a novel when my hard drive crashed and I lost a chapter and a half of the novel series I had been writing. Those two things happened so fast and so hard that I literally blocked myself from writing. In fact, over the next few years, I blocked virtually all things creative. Rarely have I written anything, only starting projects that still haven’t been finished, and I still have issues with even making an afghan or shawl. I even have problems pulling out my coloring books.
One of the problems that I keep having is that when I try and write, the passion that came through isn’t there anymore. I don’t have the darkness seeping through me like I used to. Not that I don’t do bad things. Sometimes I do things that are truly bad, and I am very sorry for that. I carry my regret as deep as I used to carry my darkness. My problem is that I don’t carry the anger and pain from my past that I used to. But I haven’t figured out yet how to write from the Light. I’m trying to go back to the novels again. And the short stories. I sit down and try and write and I still go blank.
There has been hope though. I’m still here writing the blog. This doesn’t come from pain, or at least not always. And it is a place for healing, or trying to be. I am starting to feel the edges of the creative flow again, and I’m sitting down every day trying to write. Maybe the Light is trying to find it’s way through. And maybe, those old stories can still find their way out.