I’ve been trying to write, but it seems borderline impossible to finish anything lately. I’ve started dozens of different essays and short stories, but as inspired as I might feel as I start them, it seems to fall flat halfway through it. It is so frustrating… How can I dare to call myself a writer if I can’t seem to write more than a few sentences at a time?
Honestly, my writing – or lack thereof – feels like a perfect ironic metaphor for my station in line right now – on hold. Everything in my life is now on hold. Every time someone asks me about the future – near or far – my reply can be summed up to a shrug. I don’t know. I simply don’t know. The plans have been laid out, I know exactly where I should be in 3 months, and what I should be doing, and whom with. But that´s but a plan for the moment. For now, I need to rely on my own self assurance that things will work out as planned, but holding back my own insecurities about the process to get me there is an entirely different story. Same goes for writing… I have an idea, it seems promising, I start writing it down and then… it´s like I was told I could not move forward, and I can’t find the next word. Dozens of stories left halfway, hundreds of characters whose lives are just as mine – on hold.
Last week I had an idea for a book. Not just a short story, but an entire book. Something unlike anything I’ve ever done before. Unlike anything I’ve ever read before. As soon as I sat down to put words to paper? Nothing. So that’s where my brilliant idea lays now: on hold. Along with my life.
I’m sick of it. Sick of waiting, sick of expecting, sick of needing other people to believe in me so that I can move forward. My biggest achievements have always been fruit of my self-reliance, so why is the universe forcing me to depend on strangers now? I am ready to move forward. I am finally sure.
And, as life’s ironic sense of humor grins at me with a mischievous look, just as I am finally prepared for whatever comes next, I wait. I’m on hold.