The Ultimate BLOCK

I've hit a wall.

It's been there for a while. Constructing slowly. Block after heavy block. It rises and I fall. Further from the dream...from the place where I want to be. I can't complain really. I have written and published five novels. I have ideas for countless more. But somewhere along the way I lost my passion. It grew dimmer slowly. Like all things time was the bandit. It crept by slowly. Whittling away. Tick tock. Second by Second.

There was a time when I promised myself I'd be published by thirty. Here I am thirty two years old, and I am published, but selfly. It isn't the same for some reason. I tell my children I'm an author but I rarely feel it in the words as they spill from my lips. I feel like a liar as I say them. Yes I'm a writer, but I've yet to meet my success. I spent thousands on advertising. Even more on needless things. Bookmarks, swag packs, wasted money. Wasted opportunity. I'm not sure where I lost my way. Back in the beginning. After the numbers didn't rise.

I've given away hundreds of books, a lot of which I paid for. Where has it gotten me? Do I have more reviews on Amazon? After a while I stopped caring. I bled myself dry and threw my work out into the huge space of the internet. Where it was lost. Where no one cared...and slowly that wall started growing. Where do I go from here?

Do I give up...continue to tell the lie that I'm a writer. Many before me who were far more talented toiled without recognition. Plenty were unknown until they were gone. As any artist goes I may never be a great one. But in the beginning that isn't why I wrote down my stories. I wrote because my dreams and nightmares spilled across the pages. I couldn't stop typing. I was alive in my world of self constructed towers of words. I loved it. I loved every moment of creating my multi-faceted complicated heroin's. I loved the way words could build new worlds. Painting pictures with each push of the keyboard.

Creating something from nothing. I lost that drive in the race for recognition and glory. And somehow from the ups and downs I've found my way back. It was in the writing of another author that I woke up and remembered why I'd started this all to begin with. It wasn't fame and fortune. I wrote because I could, because above anything else it was what I wanted to do. My dream job.

I took it for granted...but I'm back bitches!!!

I feel it coiling up inside me like a tidal wave long forgotten. It builds and boils up in frothy waves. I want to create, I want to bleed out upon the pages. I want to rip my heart to shreds and weave it into first sentences my fingers aren't fast enough to type. I want to weep my soul into my words until I'm left empty and spent, like a lover after a long marathon of crazy fucking sex. I want that wonderful release I can only get from writing.

I was dead for a while. Stuck in the crypt I built for myself. It isn't about fame and glory. It's about the words. The world, the wonderful fucked up awesomeness that is writing.