I used to pride myself in being able to write what other people felt or thought, but could never quite articulate. I struggled for a while to find validity in my writing, wishing I had real talent. Something quantitative, like being able to play the guitar by ear or effortlessly snowboarding down a black diamond. No one tells the room to quiet down, so people can gather around – eyes gleaming as they watch you type on your laptop. No one gives you a standing ovation and tosses you flowers after writing a blog. But that’s not why we write is it? Enabling sympathy and empathy is a talent, even f I still have to convince myself it is from time to time. Now more than ever do I have to convince myself it is.
I’ve been experiencing a new kind of writers block. One where I feel like I’m no longer relatable, because I’m no longer relevant. What do I write about? No one’s breaking my heart in a volatile fashion. My life is no longer messy in an entertaining way. I’m not dating different men with new dicks and new antics.
I don’t have kids, so I can’t relate to parents. I’m no longer young and dealing with fuckbois, so I have nothing in common with 20 year olds. And I’m not married, so why would someone with a ring on their finger listen to me? I’m not a successful entrepreneur or business owner, or even “Insta-famous”.
Then, the other week someone reposted a blog I wrote from 2009 saying that even after all these years it still makes her cry. The minute I read the post, the memories came flooding back. I remembered who it was about, why I wrote it, and the pain flowing from my heart and into my veins that fueled that dark time in my life. “Same girl, same” I replied.
You see, people with kids once only hoped for them. People who are married fucked a few frogs before finding their king/queen. And every successful person has sacrificed before they flourished. We always remember our first love. Our last love. The moment we found out we got cheated on. The moment we realized we were in love. The times we almost gave up. The people who made sure we didn’t.
We may forget certain details, like the exact words that were said or who hung up first. Maybe even the who what or when, but we never forget how we felt during these times in our lives. We will always remember how sad we were even if we’re happy now. How low we were, even if we’re on cloud 9 now. We will always remember the feelings, I just hope that I get to be one of the people who helps you remember. Writing might be a talent, but it’s also subjective. I’d like to think of it more as a gift, meant to be shared and given.
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