(and yet I can’t think of a better title than that)
My dirty little secret is that I’ve not written anything since I graduated from my MFA program in May of 2024.
To give myself credit though, I have revised things, I’ve just not written anything new. In fact, this is actually the first “new thing” I’ve written since then. I feel really insecure about it. I’ve talked about it with my husband, my other writing buddies, and even my therapist, and everyone keeps assuring me it’s normal, and I guess it is, but is it really normal for me? I mean, I rewrote that previous sentence literally like 7 times, which isn’t like me. Usually, I’m a little delusionally confident when it comes to drafting.
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I was young when I started my MFA program, 22 years old and fresh out of undergrad. I was beyond delighted to be in my program, and I can honestly say I loved pretty much every second of it. I met some of my dearest friends in that program, including the man who would become my husband (technically, I guess, we more so reconnected than met, but tomato-tomatoe) and I know my writing grew while I was in it. I was given amazing opportunities, meeting some awesome authors, being a reader at readings, incredible workshops, and so much more. And, while I’m so grateful for that, by the time it was over, I was tired.
I was tired of struggling financially, working multiple part-time jobs in order to stay afloat, tired of staying up late working on homework or stories just to get up early to go to work or class, tired of having been in school for 19 years straight, and most of all tired of writing for people other than myself. And, I know, I know, when you’re a writer, you have to think of your audience and this and that and. . . ugh, look, I know that’s important. I do, but here’s the thing, I started writing for myself. At the end of the day, I did all that stuff because I love to write, and loving to write was a way that I could love myself.
Until suddenly, it wasn’t.
I really don’t know what it was or when it happened. Maybe it was burnout, maybe I was / am in a rut, maybe it was because my grandmother died the day after I finished and turned in my thesis, which was about her, which I said was what was going to happen if I ever finished it. I don’t know, but suddenly writing became more like a chore than something I loved. I’d sit down and instead of a blank screen being opportunity, it was fear.
What if I’m actually not a good writer? What if what I’m about to write never gets published and is worthless? How long is it going to take me to revise? What’s the point in writing if I can’t finish anything? Who cares about this? Who cares about that? Everything was too big. Everything was too loud.
I’d built so much of identity on loving to write and being a writer. What if, suddenly, that was gone? What if is gone? What if it never comes back?
What does that make me?
***
I really am too young for a mid-life crisis, so I guess this is my quarter-life crisis. Or maybe just a run-of-the-mill-regular-ole crisis. I don’t know. Either way, this isn’t a post that’s going to wrap up with me talking about how I got myself out of it or how I’m just suddenly cool with everything or how, by the way, I have a whole novel I wrote because I dragged myself up by the bootstraps and “just did it.” That’s impossible, by the way, in case no one has told you- pulling yourself up by the boot straps. Anyway.
I guess that’s why I started this thing back up. I don’t really have it “together” and I don’t really know what my future holds from here on out. But I think one thing I have realized, maybe turning 25 really is the age your prefrontal cortex is becomes “fully cooked,” is that it’s okay that my identity is changing because who I am as a person is just evolving. I’m still myself, at my core. I value kindness and empathy and compassion and speaking out for what you believe and ambition and hard work and joy, among other things.
Maybe now, maybe part of getting older, is just that the way I’m going about those things can be different at times. Suddenly, having a stable career and eventually starting a family and only reading things I want to read, not things that are “good,” seem really cool to me. Am I getting boring? I guess maybe I am. But, I don’t think I care anymore.
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At the end of the day, I do actually want to start writing again, but this time, there will be no timers or bribing myself or writing what I feel like I *need* to write, just what I *want* to write, and on my own terms. No more reading books I think are boring or trying to write the next great American novel when I say I’m not actually trying to write the next great American novel (iykyk).
My six-year-old niece just learned how the read and she’s devouring books. (I’ve been saying all year she’s reading at a second grade level and got my confirmation at the end of her Kindergarten year when they tested her, and lo-and-behold, she tested at that second-grade level.) Right now, unicorns and Pinkalicious and Bluey and Hello Kitty are all in. Basically, anything that is girly and cute and fun is in. She reminds me so much of myself at that age, reading just because it makes her happy; it reminds me of how I was when I first started to write, writing just because it made me happy.
Maybe what I need to write isn’t what I *need* to write. Maybe what I need to write is what I want to write. Maybe that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
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