I used to fantasize of the glamorous writing life: working from home, eyeballs deep in books and notes, odd hours and a steady stream of whiskey and coffee. And it’s not too far off from what I’m currently living. Except, instead of writing I just keep wavering.
That’s the only way I can describe it. Like describing the way my fingers hover over my keyboard before I slam my laptop closed.
When I used to write, it used to be for myself. It used to pour out of me, like I had a tap into some kind of story well. It was every fear, every wish, every guilty pleasure. Every story was me. It wasn’t a job or a chore. It used to be a way to make sense of my own head; it was a way to live all the lives I wanted to live.
Now when I go to write all that I can do is stare at a blank page. Continue reading “The “Adulting” Project: Navigating Between the Personal and the Professional”