Been having an epistemological writing crisis lately. I want to quit writing, not because I have run out of ideas, or don't even like it, but because I feel what I have been working on do not have meaning/purpose and isn't good enough.
I want to write stories that make people think and feel. Stories that are effortless in their execution of concepts, ideals and plot.
I have been feeling as if I am not good or intelligent enough of a writer to bring life to the type of stories I care for.
I know that Toni Morrison quote about writing the story you want to read, but what if I am not equipped to do so. 😒😕
I always look forward to October, the month when the world --the western world--celebrates the occult. I have been a fan of witches, ghouls, eldritch, and the macabre forever!
October 2018 was no exception. I looked forward to it, and even the black cat that slipped across my path on Halloween night got me excited.
It was bad omen, of course. Exactly a week later, I experienced the worst tragedy of my life.
My mom slipped from the world.
Every day I wake up and think about the circumstances -- how I could've prevented it, and all the things I did wrong, like being upset she was sick, again, and also not taking her to the hospital in the morning.
I was stupid and selfish, and wished we did more together. But all that has passed. I have no magic wand or time-traveling contraption to return to that day in November 2018.
This year October feels sober.
I have all the same feelings of excitement, but they are muted. Each time I allow myself to feel joy, my guilt, pain and sadness stifles that joy into submission.
As the one year anniversary comes up, I admit, I still don't know how to cope.
But I have been dong so for nearly a year and will try ...
Yes, that's a bird named Blanks sitting on my computer. And yes, he's real. #invasionofpersonalspace
"When she was just a girl, she expected the world. But it flew away from her reach, so she ran away in her sleep." -ColdPlay.