Un-Stuck

The way you kiss her makes me want to cut her lips off and attach them to mine. ---Prompt--- The Unrequited love poem: How do you feel when you love someone who does not love you back?

It seems like every couple of months I fall back to this blog like a life preserver, like it's going to save me, convince me (and others) that I am a writer who loves to create worlds out of words, and despite insecurities and lack of faith in my craft, push myself to post and release my babies out into the inter-world. But then I fall off the wagon, let other things take priority and forget for a while because sometimes it's simply too hard, and the increasing degree of failure cramps my fingers up and wipes my brain of all the words, simple and not. So, if you're still here, I am going to try again. I am going to get back on the wagon and continue down this path, hoping that one of these times my silly little experiments and exercises work and the easy flow of writing will come back to me. Let's stick to a schedule of Sunday and Wednesdays. Maybe I can stick to that.

The point of this blog was to unstick myself. Find an end to the drought that has dried up the plot well. But the actual point is that writing is not just a hobby, not if you want it to feel right. It's a way of life, something that should be ingrained in your soul, creating an electrical current that sparks every time your fingers hit a key or wrap around a pen. With all the recent changes in my life, wonderful at best, there's a disconnection left in its wake. I grabbed nearly all of my roots and planted them in foreign locations, surrounded by different climates and atmospheres. I've gotten rid of my constants and lost all forms of routine. But as they say, this is growing up. Growing up. Never would I have thought that growing up meant losing a part of you that used to be an essential part of your essence. Leaving it untended to and unnurtured meant leaving something so necessary to your core. But it's a slow reaction. Other distractions come in, take place and ...

I started writing at the time most people probably say they do. Pre-teen angst: so many feelings but never wanting to talk, begging for someone to understand but convincing myself that no one could possibly understand at all. So, I wrote. Pretty melodramatic, cringe-worthy doom and gloom pieces but even in their darkest form, there was something so raw about them, something terribly naïve that has kept me stuck in the moment so many years later. Stuck. There’s a word that I’ve come to loathe. A word constantly used as an excuse, a crutch. Because if you’re stuck, people develop a form of understanding. Like some uncontrollable force is keeping you still, stalling your progress, and there’s not much you can do until you just become un-stuck. How? No one knows. One day the powers that be will release you from this cursed hold and you’ll be able to carry on, years, months, days later, until something else comes along that you can’t quite grab the reigns on and you become s...