first off....

even the blinking cursor and too-familiar empty "new post" page makes me want to recoil.

my aversion to blogging is kindled by snide remarks, poor teenage attempts, "mommy blogger" stigmas, knowing my tiny audience a little too personally, and a defeatist feeling towards writing as a whole that has persisted with me for five years.

why do i still tell people "i'm a writer?"

i wrote a novel every year from the age of 12 through 18.

i finished Hattie in the middle of a personal tragedy and never wrote a novel again. not because i have been unable to recover in seven years, but because it was only the beginning of a multitude of events that stole the innocence and fantasy from my life. 

adulthood set in, and it was markedly devoid of fiction.

rarely have I managed more than 3 chapters of a draft since. 

new story ideas cease to come upon me any more. 

i've managed a few poor snippets of poetry. 

i can't bring myself to write so much as a decent instagram caption.

i can't even read fiction anymore. 

i turn 25 in a few weeks and feel severely lacking. i was supposed to be published by now. my fiction game was supposed to be on point by now. i was supposed to be mentoring others by now. 

confident.

i was supposed to be confident in writing by now. this was my thing. my major. i was going to show everyone that i could actually do this thing.

oh sure, there were people who enjoyed my writing. but amidst the accolades, the praises, the recognition, there was still the 1% who criticized. the ones who misread my intentions. the ones who told people i loved that i must be depressed and angry. the ones who saw, instead of my ironic sense of humor, only bitterness. the ones who argued instead of contemplated with me. the ones who spat at me instead of sitting with my thoughts. 

yes the criticism was sometimes deserved, but a youngling finding her voice made it too public too soon, and received a harsher backlash than she knew how to handle.

i am no longer a stranger to the nature of the internet but i still do not handle quips from strangers well. i cannot say with any honesty that the opinions of people i don't know don't bother me. negativity from people i do know is even worse. 

i despise the internet. i despise the comments sections. i despise the molding of minds to attach their devotion to a particular political party or ideology, refusing to assess other options. i despise how our algorithms create little bubbles of the self, where things we like and agree with daily--obligingly--affirm our growing egoism. i despise a world unable to think for themselves, to listen, to disagree in private, to empathize, to resist oversharing. 

i couldn't take it. i lost all interest in garnering attention with a craft so sacred to my heart. i became loathe to share more than a few select pieces of writing. it's why i haven't been able to write much more than school papers in 7 years. today i advance in trepidation.

as discouraging as it feels, i am here to re-start my journey. to scratch at this itch, this guilt, that comes upon my soul every time i think about writing (a daily occurrence). 

this will primarily consist of reading reviews and philosophical tirades and complaints about the state of the world (all written in my ironic satire, which will promptly be misconstrued as bitterness. Alas). 

i am trying. maybe during these practice rounds, something concrete will come to me.

welcome to this new journey.