Lost: My Writing. Girly, fanciful, wangsty and grammatically correct.

Where has my writing gone?


Two years ago, I was an avid, fruitful writer of thoughts, dreams, desires, fears, rants, raves, poetry, songs, long lists (of the "to-do" and "packing" variety, mostly). The evidence falls out of dogeared notebooks (mostly spiral-bound), scrapbooks, photo albums, old websites. It's scribbled in pencil and blue ink, black ink, pink ink, ball point pen, fountain pen, Sharpie, rich text. It's personal, embarassing, stupid and true.

Last summer, I hit a point, sometime in June. I couldn't write anymore. I didn't want to. It had been my New Year's resolution to write every day, but had been forced for a long time. Even during freshman year, I don't remember really writing anything substantial. I re-read my old journal entries and it all blends together.

The only times I wrote and felt it was truly worthwhile were in high school. In the middle of drama and pain and love and feelings and events which I now label "stupid", "childish" and "past". They are past, but I used to have this knack for holding onto what was past and wringing it out, woolling it around and beating it like a dead horse till I had gotten all the creativity out of it that I ever possibly could. And doing it all over again till some "life-changing" event negated it and let me move on. And write about that.

Maybe it's just that I haven't had anything worth writing about. Maybe I haven't had anything worth thinking about to the point that I have to write it out. I haven't wanted to think about much of anything in a long time.

I think that's what is scariest and saddest of all.


I'm hoping this summer gives me fodder for my pen. And desire. I want to want it again. Like you, I want a purpose. I used to have one -- to get rid of my angst, to find a new way of wallowing, to express something in words no one has ever used before.

I don't know what my purpose will be, when I find it [if I find it?]. I'm just so ready for it.


xxxAnnie