Ive been searching myself for more than just a couple lines that sound like they came straight out of a thriller novel. I WANT the novel. I want the whole novel, to flow out of me, like those few short meaningful sentences of creativity, but yet, more. Bigger. And it frusterates me that I dont have it.
Ive been trying to write a full-on book for the last year and a half. What once used to be so easy, is so strangely disconnected from me, now. Writing gave me that escape, that vent for my expressions, my emotions, that I cant get here on this world alone. I am a writer... and what does one do when a writer cannot write?
I feel so mutilated... like my appendages have been taken from me and I am left with a useless, mindless torso. Just heart, but no means of delivering or deciphering that heart into any meaningful reason.
Heart and passion has to be coupled with action. And I feel like my action has been stripped away from me. It feels terrible.
Ive been trying to do all I can. I read all sorts of books, I read the Bible... I tell stories to myself, I think long and hard about things that have some significance to me, I even research for story ideas. But I feel like the spark has left me. And all Im left with is this skeleton of a blog, where little is written and less is even read.