I’ve been sitting on this post since October. I guess there’s no more fitting time to share it than in the middle of NANoWriMo. XD I’ve been having a bit of a struggle getting the words I want down, and even being satisfied with writing, and wondering what other hobbies/creative ventures to try. I guess I already confronted this, around this time last month, but my memory is not great. Here’s the post:
These days I find myself in the midst of a transformation of sorts. I spent the past year thinking to myself, “well, I don’t feel any older or more adult,” and now, as I near my 26th year, I’m finding just how much I have grown and changed.
Its’s been a slow, but steady thing, growing up. What interests me has changed, as has my hopes and dreams, and what I believe the future can hold for me. It’s a strange thing, the realisation that what you once thought you knew, was never really what was known at all, and maybe how you thought things were, was only a vague understanding of a much simpler concept you saw as complex because you didn’t understand it yet. Strange to some, though not much to me, I really do enjoy the process of ageing and changing. Since I young age, I eagerly awaited my 90s 🤣 and the joy I’d have being old, grey, and settled somewhere making my longed and going existence everyone else’s problem. I’m less than a half ways there, but I’m happy I’ve made it even this far!
I’ve often said of myself, that I’ve always known who I was, and what I was about, and I’m finding this to still be true, however my understanding of how true that statement is has deepened over time, and I know it will only continue to grow more real and true as time goes on. I’m finding that, in youthful exuberance and brashness, there is a fortress I’ve built and maintained for protection, but with age I’ve finally reached a point where I don’t have to be on guard as intensely as before. I knew who I was since I was a child, but the person I was, was yet to be the one I am and knew I’d become.
It’s a hard thing explaining to others how you can be sure of yourself, and still insecure and vulnerable to outside harm. People don’t often understand how confidence is sometimes the best defence you can offer yourself against others and the world. I had finely crafted my outward appearance and image for my own protection and benefit. I won’t say I suffered greatly as a child, I was the sort of person who, even against great odds and misfortune, would never say I was deeply harmed or truly bothered beyond inconvenience, for my own sake. I experienced bullying and bullied others. I was harassed and did harassing. I had a basic understanding of faith, humanity, consciousness, and ethics, and utilised it all to try and navigate a world I knew would be too terrifying to bear if I didn’t practice strength in every way I could learn and utilise how. I made a lot of conscious effort to make choices I hoped would bring me to today, and I don’t regret the paths I took and ideas I stuck to, even as they’d have to change and evolve. I find this is just a way life goes, we can never really be one thing with one belief, and one mind all our lives. Even as we feel unchanged, we’ve shifted into something else all along.
Now, you may be wondering what this has to do with anything. “Cass,” you might say, “this is a writing blog.” And you’d be right.
I’m finding these days that, as I’ve changed into something new over the years, so has my relationship with writing had to change. In recent years, ironically when I’ve possibly been my most active with writing again, I’ve also grown more distant and unsatisfied with it. When I first wrote, it was for fun, then as life continued to happen it became another plate in my armor and a stone placed into the foundation of my fortress. Writing became a weapon, a protection, a confidant, but eventually another foe.
People often create art for their own comfort and benefit, and I was no different. I wrote to see the stories and views I rarely saw outside of myself. I wrote to find community. I wrote to find and make peace with things I otherwise would have had to hold inside myself. It wasn’t necessarily enjoyable, how can doing something for survival be wholly entertaining? A bit like how having body image issues can damage your relationship with exercise, so can having other struggles damage your relationship with your hobbies. It’s a bit like when you have to ask yourself, “do I really enjoy working out, or am, I just afraid if I don’t, I won’t enjoy being in my body anymore?” I had to ask myself if I really enjoyed writing and the habits and beliefs I had acquired around it.
Truthfully, more and more lately, I’ve had to admit that I don’t enjoy writing. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I love telling stories. I like to read and hear a story told. I love singing, I love music, I love playing games and being able to watch new worlds and ideas form and come to life, but I don’t enjoy writing.
Writing is difficult. That’s obvious by how often I’ve heard people complain about it. I don’t mind doing difficult things, especially as I’ve often found what others have considered very difficult, to be quite easy and intuitive. Writing isn’t really hard to me, it’s just not fun or enjoyable. I don’t enjoy putting effort into something, just to receive little use in return. Sometimes it feels like all words do is take up space.
Over the summer I started a project to try and make writing fun again, but I found it difficult to keep up my energy. I found I really dread the idea of sharing fiction I’ve written. The problem is, writing is a two way street, stories are meant to be shared; that’s how it’s been for millennia. I often want to share my stories, but I never know how to get them to people who will enjoy and like them. It’s disheartening to spend so much time working on something, just to have to spend even more time to be able to even share it with someone who will like it. It’s also difficult having a hobby that is often very inaccessible. With age often comes disability, and I was already born disabled. Writing in itself is often a battle of will and time, and I can’t always be fighting both.
Sometimes the best thing you can do when you love something is let it go, this includes hobbies. Over time I’ve found more things to keep me entertained and allow me to be creative. At the end of the day, what I enjoy most is bringing something new to life. I’ve always enjoyed crafts and making things, there’s a reason why all creative things are called a type of craft to learn.
As my relationship with my hobbies and goals change, so does my affection and temperance. I have so much I can be doing, I don’t see why I should make myself miserable for, “old time’s sake.” I still write, but I’m having to find peace in the idea that I may one day never write again, and that what I do write, and why I write, may change. I’m having to change, rearrange, and even discard some of the relationships I’ve made in relation to writing. I’m leaving communities, starting new ones, finding others, and being comfortable in the idea of writing just for myself. I used to really only write just for me, and I’m sure that’s really the secret. It’s a hard thing, wanting to have community and be known, but having to keep such a pure and personal thing of yours to yourself for safekeeping. It’s a shame when sometimes you have to hide things away that otherwise seem so inconsequential.
I’ll continue to write and share impersonal things. I don’t mind talking about such benign things as what I like, my many hobbies, and whatever else I’m into, but I’ll probably not be so eager to share my private projects. Writing is personal, that means readers and writers all have their own feelings and reasoning around the consumption and production. I don’t enjoy the feeling of having to dig into someone’s head, or having mine dug into. I don’t enjoy guessing games or assumptions. I like when things are plain and straightforward, and I prefer people respect when I give them an orange and call it an orange.
There’s not much else to say on this matter outside of I’m sad and disappointed. It’s not really a thing of heartbreak, as much as it’s a result of having to confront an uneasy truth. I’m not sure what else can be said. Hope you’re having a nice day. 👍🏽