The Writer That Doesn't Write... I am an Enigma.

Hey guys (the 0.01% of you that actually read me...), been a while.

The writer that doesn't write... I heard those words a few days ago, five different words of the English language, arranged to describe me perfectly. 

Just to open up this long ago abandoned blog, I had to crack open the wine. Can I even call myself a writer anymore? I look at the two books I have written, bound in paperback - I can hold them and I can feel them. The thickness of the spine. The breeze from the pages fluttering close to my face as I run my thumb along the corners of the book. They are mine. I created them... those worlds, those characters, those stories. I did, didn't I? So why doesn't it feel like it right now? It all feels so surreal. When did I find the time, the energy and the patience to DO that? Where did I get the inspiration??? I look at the neglected document lying in my MacBooks desktop - my third novel. Possibly my best novel. I know that even though it's only a few chapters in. It's some of the best writing I have ever done and I remember when I'd been working on it, it had given me shivers it was that good. Then this writers block came and has taken away the last thing I was proud of in my life. 

I can feel it is still in me somewhere - that deepness, those words... it's swelling up inside of me somewhere but I just can't find where. 

Why is it that when your heart breaks and your life as you know if gets destroyed in one, quick fluid movement, you take it out on what you used to love the most. I'm the only one to blame for my writers block. I've wasted an entire year of my life avoiding putting my fingertips back onto my keyboard now - a year!! I only realise now how much writing I could have done it that time. 

I remember when I was writing my first two books, one of which I wrote while still in school (which obviously explains my terrible school reports actually...). I'd always make time for writing, because it was the one thing that was always mine. It was the one thing that could never hurt me. I'd shut my bedroom door, drowning out the awful sounds of my parents alcohol-induced arguments and I'd write. I'd tap away at my keyboard until the sun would rise and I would get such a shock at how I just lost myself in my imagination and words. It's the only time I have ever felt passion like that... and now it's gone. Or it's hiding. I want to call out and find it again. I miss it. I want it. But I can't. Or maybe it's because I'm telling myself I can't... 

When does it all get better? When does the pain and humiliation go away??? I try so hard to forget about it and be OK - I smile at everyone I see and I laugh, a laugh that isn't exactly false... but it could be better. It could be better if I had my writing back. That's why I am writing this... because maybe if I just write something, even just mindless rambles of someone who lost her fiance and had her life ripped away from her right before her eyes.. someone who has run away from her closet at home that holds her wedding dress she'll never wear.. someone whose given up on ever finding someone who will truly love her... because she hasn't heard the word 'love' for the longest time unless you factor in her mother.. but a mothers love is by default.. so maybe if i just write, even if it's shit, even if it's THIS... maybe somehow, digging through all these words is like draining the water from spaghetti. I'm draining out what I don't need, so that I can get to the good stuff. 

Someone told me today that I remind them of the female version of David Duchovny who plays Hank Moody in Californication... and although I like to think that I am unique, I do see things in his character that are so like me. I went onto google and asked it to describe Hank's personality to me to see what exactly it is that we have in common. First and foremost, he's a writer. So we have that. But besides his ridiculously cool profession which I wish I could have too (God, imagine just taking a year off to write a book..... that would be my dream. If I had the money, I would)... Hank (and I) are complex individuals.  We are enigma's. We create a facade so that no one can get to know the real us. 

It's safer that way. We are family orientated even though our families are as broken as you can get. We don't let people in. We have a hard exterior but those close to us are as loved as you could possibly ever be. Reckless (I'm trying so hard not to be the reckless me I have always been lately. I have overcome so many hurdles from my past with the wrong crowds and bad decisions...), impulsive and passionate. We are kids that refuse to grow up. We believe in creative freedom (I'm just not practicing mine right now...). Futhermore, we are eccentric. We are free. No one can tame us. He is just like me in so many ways.

There's another character from a different show that I also find myself relating to in more ways than one. Peyton Sawyer from One Tree Hill. Fucking hell she's been through a lot. She and I are Creative, music-lovers, different and quirky... people always fuck us over so it's just easier to push everyone away... we know we push everyone away but we can't help it... we get scared. Because if we get to that stage of trusting, of putting our faith into you completely, we know it is bound to come to an end anyway. Nothing lasts forever. Everything is temporary. It's important to know that in life. 

God, I don't even know why I wrote all of that. I just had to get it out.