#but ayyyy i got a 4.0 GPA

[faeriefully]

here’s the thing...

I used to be a writer. 

There was one point in my life I could confidently use that title for myself. When I was fourteen I began a fanfiction story about my favorite series. I made up characters. I twisted plotlines. I filled pages upon pages of outlines and character backstories. Words overflowed in my brain until not writing made me want to explode. 

Over the next two years, I wrote 100k of fanfiction and a 50k draft of a novel... then I stopped. 

I used to be a reader. 

It started with the books my mother would read to me as a child. When I was thirteen, my obsession had truly taken root. By the time I was fifteen, I was reading two books a week. For years, I read every book I could get my hands on... then I stopped. 

The decline in reading happened gradually. Changes to my daily life altered my reading time. Adjusting was difficult. I’ve never been the best at time management. A wave of mild depression didn’t particularly help me either. The number of books I buy hasn’t decreased. The enjoyment hasn’t left either... but how many have I actually read? 

My fall from writing has happened slowly as well... Five years after starting the 100k fanfiction, I posted the last 17k. In that time, I also wrote a second draft of The Novel- which is nothing like the first- and multiple small ficlets for other fandoms which have never been posted anywhere. And after that?... In the past eight months?... Ten months?... Have I really written anything in the past year? 

At what point did words stop circulating in my head? Why have I allowed the ideas in my notebooks to simply gather dust for over a year? 

Words feel stale. My style is non-existent. After so long, I don’t even know what I wanted to happen in my own untouched novel. Tidbits of advice float around my brain, but I can’t bring myself to look at any of my WIP.

Busy. Busy. Everyone says you have to make time for writing if you love it. I remember loving it. I remember losing myself in the words. I remember the bliss of talking to the people in my head. 

Then I stopped. 

Why did I stop?

Of course, I have answers. Excuses-- work. school. college. stress. 

But other people have those too. I’m not anything special. “Don’t compare.” Yeah, sure, but there’s really nothing stopping me besides learning to deal with stress and time. Why haven’t I written? Why haven’t I tried harder? 

What am I now? 

Am I a writer? I wrote in the past. I still love writing. But I feel as if my words have left me- or maybe they’re hibernating. Or perhaps I’m the one who has abandoned my words. 

I don’t know what I want to happen in my novel. I have so many unread books on my shelf. 

I used to be a writer. 

What am I now?