A Temporary Death

Once upon a time, a writer stopped writing. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Life just got really complicated. I had a demanding job, physically and emotionally exhausting. Often, I’d be on my feet and jogging, for anywhere from six to twelve hours a day. When I wasn’t doing that, I was working on fixing up a house, catering to my (ex)husband’s seemingly extensive needs, or trying to keep in touch with friends and family. When I did have the urge to write, it was impossible to find the time, concentration, or energy. Great excuses, huh?

Any writer, reading this, will recognise themselves here. We’ve all had sabbaticals from writing, I think, whether by choice or chance. My eight year sabbatical was more likely a mixture of both.

I’d been writing for nearly 20 years at that point. I’d even attempted to acquire an agent, to no avail. The multiple form rejections were hard to take. As a writer who lives for feedback, each form letter became another brick in a prison cell for my creativity. I tried to see them as an indication that I wasn’t ready to publish yet. “My writing just needs more work.” I told myself, but I was getting harder to convince.

When life became hectic, I embraced the excuses to not write, I suppose. After all, you don’t have to suffer rejection, if you don’t try.

Over the years I tried to express my creativity in other ways. My oil paintings were flat and lifeless, more technical than talented. Carving was an utter failure. Candle making was nice, but my husband, (now my ex), couldn’t stand the strong scents in the house. Folk art, crafts, crochet; all were enjoyable, but not one was truly fulfilling. I had more interest than skill.

As each attempt met with failure, my emotions became more volatile. Without an outlet to express them, they bottled up inside me. I ignored it at first. At work, I was losing patience more quickly, an employment disaster in retail. Coworkers were tiptoeing around me, customers were becoming put off by my attitude, even my family was avoiding me more. At home, my soon-to-be ex-husband was hiding in the basement all the time. He could do nothing right in my eyes. Something had to give.

The blow-ups, when they came, were emotionally violent and exhausting. It was almost as though I was picking fights everywhere I went. I couldn’t stand looking at myself in the mirror anymore. When I did, I saw an angry, bitter, genuinely unhappy woman, with nowhere to go, and nowhere to hide. Never had I experienced such self-loathing. So, I locked myself
up.

Instead of anger, I chose apathy. I was no longer bitter, but numb. I woke up, went to work and went home to bed. Sleep became my favourite activity. Food became my best comfort. I gained fifty pounds.

For someone who’d never had a headache, aside from a childhood concussion, I was devastated by the onset of debilitating migraines. My alcohol and cigarette consumption increased and health deteriorated. I wasn't living, but barely surviving, and I was slowly killing myself.

It took the collapse of my marriage to break free of the emotional shut-down, and then I was back to the angry, bitter woman I’d been before. With just me and my cat, in a basement apartment, with only a computer  for company, I found myself again. I’d begun to write. First was a poem you’ll  find in my anthology, The Unscheduled Stops , titled Living Dead. Next came Too Much, another of the "TUS" poems. Finally I wrote the introduction to a full novel. It was titled, Learn To Love Me. That’s right, the very first version of Learn To Love Me , was going to be my own story, a "chick-lit" about life after divorce.

 Just writing out the pain and anger helped more than anything. I was living again! I put the prologue away and wrote more poetry, I poured out short stories. Whenever things became tense in my tentative rebirth, I wrote about it. I’ll never quit writing again! It would kill me, for
sure.

So, I issue a challenge! If you are a writer, even a dabbler in the art, and you’ve quit writing, (now or in the past), write about it. Post it on your Facebook profile as a note, put it in a blog, write it on your Google + profile. Share it somehow, and link it here in the comments. If you know a writer who is thinking of quitting, send them here. Perhaps all of our stories will help them through the crisis. Don’t let them give up!

Note: I still have the original draft of the very first Learn To Love Me prologue. If enough people ask to see it, I will post it here, in the blog, or on the webpage. It’s very rough, completely unedited, and over nine years old now, but I’ll still share, if people want to see it.