It’s been two weeks since I last opened my laptop. It sat on the floor of my bedroom, next to my bedside table, untouched. The battery had gone dead when I opened it this morning. I could say I haven’t felt much like writing lately, but that would be a half-truth.
The whole truth is that I actively made the decision to stop writing.
The whole whole truth is that somewhere along the line I tried to turn a hobby into something it wasn’t meant to be. I love to read and knit, and scrapbook; but I’m not about to try and make a career out of those things. I took something I’ve loved to do since I first learned to compile a proper sentence and tried to force it into something it was never meant to be. And in doing so I essentially ruined it.
When I sat down to write—or even thought about it—I immediately felt an intense pressure settle on my shoulders. I was frozen in place before I’d even written a single word.
In my journal most mornings I’d write that I felt like a fraud. How could I call myself a writer when I was producing little to nothing. When I had nothing to share with the world.
I was tired of being upset. Of the pressure I was putting on myself. So I stopped writing.
It turns out I was right about the pressure I was putting on myself to produce. Since I put my laptop away I’ve been sleeping better and have had more energy. I started knitting again, I’ve read some incredible books, I’ve played more tennis and taken more walks.
I gave myself permission to write only for myself, only when it feels right. And if I never share a word with another person, I’m okay with that. This hobby is mine and mine only.