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Writer's Block

I want to be a writer but I don’t always want to write.

Because sometimes the world feels too heavy.

Because sometimes it’s simply suffocating.

I want to write beautiful things but sometimes I can’t get past the mangled graveyard of unfinished short stories in my mind.

I wrote an outline for an entire children’s book series on a long run once.

The manuscript still lives in my head somewhere between that stupid thing I did in 4th grade and a memory of a really good Venezuelan meal I ate in Alabama.

I want to be a writer but there’s a degree of honesty and acceptance necessary to be effective and

I’m not sure I have it right now.

Even long showers don’t produce anything more than run-on sentences and fogged up mirrors.

I want to be a writer but I’m having trouble trusting my own voice.

There is a certain high I must be chasing.

The feeling you get when flipping one verb makes an entire paragraph pristine.

Or maybe it’s the release – unloading my heart onto the closest piece of paper.

Or maybe it’s because I have stories to tell.

Or maybe it’s because I think I do.

Or maybe it’s because, regardless of the tense in which they are set, they deserve a voice.

Even a shaky one.

I want to be a writer, but words haven’t been coming easy lately.

I know that will change.

I hope that will change.

After all.

It always does.

And while I wait, heeding time as my only foreseeable solution, I’ll add more fragments and ideas into sloppy notebook corners, knowing that looking back on those words – no matter the hurt – will be a gift.

Until then.




Begin again.

Love always,


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