I feel like I’ve just woken up. I understand that this is the making of a terrible cliche statement but I really feel as if I have finally become aware of my drugged, religious stupor. Just barely, I am starting to come alive from this comatose state of oblivious emotional baggage.
That being said, I have so many ideas and I’ve been browsing around bookstores looking for the most befitting flame to ignite my story. Today I stumbled upon the thought of “what makes me feel so certain that I indeed have a story to tell?” In the past, my family has been unrelenting in provoking me to put my story to the page and they have been unrealistically adamant in persisting to shower me with endless compliments, exclaiming that I am, without question, gifted and skilled in the construction of sentencing. This is all well and good, but if my motivation isn’t inherent, beginning with my very heart’s desire, if I don’t feel a necessary pull towards writing something, it never happens… this usually tends to result with numerous writing droughts where I’m left grasping at strings in hopes of finding who I am once again, Without this beautiful revival, my writing won’t hardly deliver the fork lift-like motivation necessary in digging up my story along with the thousands of thoughts streaming through this writer’s head.
Let’s hope for the best.
I do not want to curse myself and tell the world that my writing has resurfaced because then I would expect it to disappear. I am merely holding my breath and lying in anticipation for my next move.
Patience is a virtue my dear.