Because I’ve been a bit busy on the weekends I haven’t posted anything new in a few weeks, and that pattern is only going to get worse. That’s why I decided to let go of the weekly posts on Sunday and instead write and post whenever I feel like it. That also calls for a bit of a different look and feel to the blog, so don’t be surprised if I start changing it around a lot – I still have to figure out what’ll work best. Anyway, more posts soon. Probably not on Sunday.
Something I struggle with a bit while writing articles for my blog is the format I want to use. For some posts I try to write something easy to process and quick to scan through, notably when I write about travel-related topics, but at other times I just write a big ‘wall of text’ for which you’ll actually need a lot of attention. I realise it makes the posts a bit less attractive and a lot of people might look and decide not to read it because they don’t have the time or attention span right now (and it’s not like they’ll come back to read it later). I too often refrain from reading a text simply because it looks long or difficult. Then why would I write them myself? I’ll try to explain and make this post a bit more accessible at least. Hooray for subheadings?
Writer’s block is a weird thing. I’ve been bothered by it for years now (that is, for works of fiction) but I still haven’t been able to pinpoint the exact reason for it. The fact remains that whenever I complete an idea for a story and start writing, it just doesn’t happen. The story should write itself, they say, but mine just don’t anymore. Sometimes I’m able to write a few pages, the start or ending or some random events, but when I look at it the next day it simply doesn’t feel right. As if I wanted to hit a target with my bow and arrow, but after I aimed and let loose the arrow went somewhere completely different. Maybe the target was too far away, or my hands were shaking. Perhaps I was using the wrong bow or the arrow wasn’t properly fletched. I used to know exactly how to hit the target, but somehow the arrows started falling to the ground. Many broken arrows now lie scattered among the empty targets, in a field of unfulfilled promises.
Last year I discovered that many of my friends and family don’t know that I write. Sure, they know that I practically aced every writing assignment I got in university, but they don’t know that I write. A lot. I actually identify with writing more than with anything else. I feel like I am a writer, or a storyteller at the least. As soon as I knew how to spell I started pouring my mind onto paper. It’s always been there, so I guess I thought everyone knew. Finding out that they don’t was strange; it even caused a tiny mental breakdown for me, where for a moment I wondered if anyone really knows who I am.