I wrote an article.
Well, I did not publish the article in question, but I wrote it.
And I hated it.
I won’t tell you what it was supposed to be about, because that isn’t the point, but I will tell you why I hated it.
I was writing it because I thought I had to. It had been a while, I hadn’t been producing content, and I hadn’t written. Therefore, this article had to be written, and there was nothing I could do about it. That’s what I hated about it.
I had started writing this article after two months of not writing anything. And I mean anything. My WIP was not touched in these two months. I wasn’t writing articles as frequently as I had been, since I wasn’t writing them at all, and I had not so much as written a note on my phone.
I referred to this as a “break.”
When asked what I was working on, I would tell people, “Oh, I’m on a bit of a writing break.”
Which was true, technically. I was on a break. But this was not voluntary, I’d say. This was a struggle.
I had never experienced writer’s block. I think sometimes you get stuck, and it can be tougher than other times to move on, but I was never sure about the realness of writer’s block.
Writer’s block punched me right in the face these last two months, and it showed me no mercy when I pleaded with it to stop.
I don’t quite know what happened, since I’ve never been in a place where I felt entirely over writing.
I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t care what that meant for my earnings or for my sanity, but I didn’t want to write. And it’s a little bit harder to be a writer when you aren’t writing.
Of course, the title of “writer” is not immediately stripped away the moment you cease writing, but that’s what it felt like. That I had stopped writing, that I had run out of creative ideas, that I had no motivation, and I was no longer a writer.
Which is, for the most part, dramatic.
It wasn’t a long time. It wasn’t a deep, dark, depressing time for me or anything, either. I just didn’t want to write.