All this week, I have been writing randomly but not converting anything. This is not a big deal per se; I write so much and have so much written that I can post stuff for a few months or reblog what I have and not really worry.
But whenever I hit a writing wall, I have to figure out why. Sometimes, I just hit a lull that usually opens up around the time I need to decide to write new things or just post some of the stuff I have written all over the place. Every once in a while, I know that my stress level is too high to have meaningful inner dialogue–I am simply burnt out from life being in survival mode.
This time was different though. I felt suffocated, my words piling up around me even while I wrote them. They jumbled together, coming out in sentences that did not reflect my heart. Each draft that I went back to read felt stupid and clunky. Everything I wrote rang utterly false.
I sat in my car one night in the bitter cold wrestling with a promising draft gone sour (my preferred place of writing is the car because my family is boisterous and phone calls abound and movies are playing and this place is small with paper thin walls). And it came to me: I am trying to write differently so that I don’t offend anybody I know.
So I needed to get that off my chest before I could move on. I needed to admit to myself that I was censoring myself. I needed to remind myself that I can only write what I know and how I know it.