Once upon not such a long time ago, we sat down to write.
Many of us opened a laptop, many others the screen of a fixed computer, and a few grab there a good old fashion pen and notebook.
We wrote stories. A myriad of them. In a myriad of genres.
The world around us somehow faded into our own imagination, into our own words.
In that short period of time, we felt something. Something like a sense of belonging. Of kinship.
With the words.
With all the writers being, the writers of the past, the writers waiting to take our seat in front of the screen, the paper.
We felt we were at the right place, doing precisely what we were meant to be doing.
Write stories in the hope to share them with readers – as many as possible too.
Since the sky is the limit, that’s what we used to reach for.
The writers that we used to be sat down countless times to write.
Until, one day, one of us stopped in the middle of a paragraph.
All of a sudden, the words cease to make sense. The story went pointless. The third draft was now one too many.
One of us closed the laptop and put away the pen and notebook. One of us set aside the pile of books to be read.
Days, weeks. All went by.
Happy days, difficult weeks, some long nights filled with tremendous anxiety.
Today, birds woke me up before the sun had time to rise.
It rained during the night. Clouds are still heavy, ready to cheer the spring – flowers everywhere, camaïeu of greens. Beautiful.
A little something tinkled inside. I got up, took the laptop.
Like writers do so often, I sat down to write.
This time, the words tagged along.
Have you ever felt like you wonder why you stopped doing something that brings so much joy and enchantment, fellow writers?
That’s how writing this blog post makes me feel.
Curious to see how I will react when I face those unfinished writing projects…
Dear fellow writers, may all the good words flow your way!