Yesterday, this tweet touched me: “Amiri Baraka said that writers don’t write because they want to, they do it because they have to. It’s like breathing.”
That tweet broke my heart because it’s true. And it’s no longer true of me. All my life I wanted to be a writer. I always pushed it to the back, planned to cultivate it later, etc. But now, I miss that person – the writer who almost was. I’m in mourning about it. A friend of mine said it’s probably a good thing – meaning maybe it’s time for the writer to reemerge. I suppose.
I just know a part of me is missing and I don’t know how to get her back. Or when I can even really try.