My story-telling came to a screeching halt last May. It’s been eight months since I last wrote about the trials and tribulations of my 20’s. At this point, I find it really difficult to pick up where I left off. I mean, for me, it’s easy to keep writing since it’s my story; I lived it; I remember it well. But to the handful of readers who were following along, well, I just don’t think they give a rat’s ass to find out whatever did happen to crazy-ass Jackie. And even if they did, how could they just pick up and start reading without feeling lost? It would be like picking up a book you haven’t read in a long time. You have to go back and re-read a couple of chapters to remember what the hell was happening in the story. And who wants to do that with my blog!?
So why did I stop writing? I’ve asked myself this question a lot. I don’t think I have just one answer. It’s complicated. For one, writing about the past stirs up a lot of negative memories for me. It takes me back to those feelings and it brings me down, sometimes for days. So there’s that.
Second, I’m writing about real-life, still-living people. Do I write a soft, cushy version of how it went down or do I tell the truth? I’m a truth-teller. It’s hard for me to sugar-coat things. I like to tell it like it was. So if I can’t do that, then I’d rather not do it at all. I mean, I CAN tell it like it was, but then I have to think of the repercussions of doing so. Do I want to risk inviting drama into my life? Is it worth it? Is it necessary? No.
Third, I just didn’t feel like it anymore. I suppose it’s because of reasons 1 and 2 that I haven’t had the energy or desire to write. Instead, I have spent a lot more time doing art. Art is great soul-work for me. I’m using my creativity; it’s meditative and relaxing. And it’s pretty. Who doesn’t want to make pretty things instead of remembering ugly times?