D
Deleted member 42060
Guest
And there it goes. My enthusiasm for writing is gone.
I just stopped writing for a month for some personal reason. I tried getting back into my novel that had two completed drafts, but my fingers wouldn’t move. This sudden lack of passion feels so disorientating that I wonder if I really am destined to become a writer.
It wouldn’t be surprising that every writer had gone through those “depression periods.” I’ve been only writing for two years, so I shouldn’t feel too jaded about it. My only solution to this disorientating lack of passion is to begin by writing short stories. And my fingers are sore after I start writing again. Everything feels so unnatural. Unnatural because I used to play with words like a frenzied kid, but now I see them as mere symbols of the English language. Nothing more.
Defining myself as a writer was a mistake. If you strictly define yourself as a writer, you are doomed to have an identity crisis—just like any other label. “I’m a writer, so I should write.” But what if you stop writing? Do you stop becoming a writer too? And that moment prickles my identity. It’s just saddening.
I intentionally forced myself to stop writing, and now I regret it. Reading and writing were my beloved hobbies; now, they’re just a chore. Defining yourself is a curse, guys. Don’t do it. Just have a non-label identity, and you’ll be fine. Labels just make your life unnecessarily rigid.
So—yeah. I don’t know. Maybe I should wait for it to come back.
Thankfully, I’m still eager to write an essay like this. Maybe I should become an essayist instead of becoming a novelist.
I just stopped writing for a month for some personal reason. I tried getting back into my novel that had two completed drafts, but my fingers wouldn’t move. This sudden lack of passion feels so disorientating that I wonder if I really am destined to become a writer.
It wouldn’t be surprising that every writer had gone through those “depression periods.” I’ve been only writing for two years, so I shouldn’t feel too jaded about it. My only solution to this disorientating lack of passion is to begin by writing short stories. And my fingers are sore after I start writing again. Everything feels so unnatural. Unnatural because I used to play with words like a frenzied kid, but now I see them as mere symbols of the English language. Nothing more.
Defining myself as a writer was a mistake. If you strictly define yourself as a writer, you are doomed to have an identity crisis—just like any other label. “I’m a writer, so I should write.” But what if you stop writing? Do you stop becoming a writer too? And that moment prickles my identity. It’s just saddening.
I intentionally forced myself to stop writing, and now I regret it. Reading and writing were my beloved hobbies; now, they’re just a chore. Defining yourself is a curse, guys. Don’t do it. Just have a non-label identity, and you’ll be fine. Labels just make your life unnecessarily rigid.
So—yeah. I don’t know. Maybe I should wait for it to come back.
Thankfully, I’m still eager to write an essay like this. Maybe I should become an essayist instead of becoming a novelist.