She put pen to paper and then it happened again.
Her hand froze, her heart beat insanely and her brain short-circuited.
It’s been going like this for weeks now, her writing fright got the best of her and now she can’t write again. She can’t connect from the last scene, and even though she had the next scene and a lot more ready in her head, the moment she put pen to paper, the scenes start shredding, blurring, tearing apart in her brain. She can’t see her characters as clearly as she could before. The words weren’t flowing anymore. Her heart beat insanely out of sheer fear of writing.
She pulled back, again. Took a breath, again. Told herself it was only the first draft, again. Told herself she only needs to write it down now, again. Put pen on paper, again, and froze, again.
It was only one phenomenon from a messy mixture of self doubt, fear, exhaustion, hatred and a lot more, only one stop on a years long journey of crippling ailments that put her on and off writing for extended periods of time, where her first and most passionate love might turn into nothing more than a thing that she did, where her beloved characters were nothing more than that, characters, instead of people she held dear to her heart and people whose acquaintance, even if it’s on one fake account, were a part of what made her who she was. It was a painful journey, one where she kept on asking again and again… Am I real? Is any of this real? Or is it only to build myself an identity which I really need and lack, deep inside, and by pacifying people with that reply, I can somehow… maybe somehow build myself an identity… a thing, but none of that mattered at the moment.
Because if she stopped fighting, she might lose the love she held deep and dear, and which was in essence a part of her, but in the same time if she continued fighting, she might kill it, and then it might become only that, a thing she did. Nothing more nothing less.
And in the middle of this seemingly losing battle, she pulled back and looked at her notebook which was filled with a new set of characters, specifically cut out of her, a new set of characters whom she dearly wanted to adventure with, to laugh with and to cry with, and to get to know and love, but their story is cut in the middle, because the dreaded fear captured her, enveloping her and her heart and holding it tight, not allowing her heart to beat any beat but that of fright.
In the middle of what it seemed, and one could correctly argue was, a trial of craft, what was happening inside her, without her realising out of overwhelming fear, was a painful journey of identity, love, self and a lot more she knew and didn’t know, a lot more she could and couldn’t describe and a lot more that hurt her.
It was a trial of a writer, who writing for her was more than words and prose.
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