I haven’t written much in a while.
I want to say that life got in the way, that work kept me so busy I couldn’t even make time to stop and relax or that there were many other tiny factors that when combined meant I couldn’t unlock the creative juices in my brain. Yep, I can explain it in a thousand different ways but the thing is, I just didn’t try hard enough.
It’s fucked really when I think about it.
I should’ve come home every night after work and got straight onto the computer and typed away at my manuscript or whatever else came to my mind. I should’ve spent any free time I had on the weekends on my computer typing away. I should’ve tried harder.
But then again, I would’ve just stared at a blank page for hours on end.
I feel like shit when I realise that I didn’t have it in me this year to push through the exhaustion and the mental blocks. I should’ve been stronger, should’ve tried much harder. Hard work pays off, I do believe in that.
I have beaten myself up all year when I wasn’t writing. I trashed myself in my mind. Writers write as they breathe. Not doing so would mean the death of their soul. I am dramatic and that’s how it is in my head. I saw this year as a slow death for my soul. I was not happy. There were moments of joy, of course. I wasn’t crying in a corner all year, don’t get me wrong. But there was always this part of me that clouded my mind constantly. I was not doing what I was meant to be doing.
Writing.
I had all these big ideas on New Year’s Eve last year. I was going to finally write blog posts, I was going to be way more active on social media, I was going to really push myself forward. I failed utterly and miserably. It’s shit. I feel like shit.
I did win a mentorship though after entering a short story in a competition which is this year’s saving grace for me. I took it as a sign of the universe telling me, ‘Stop fucking around and do what you’re meant to be doing!’
It’s not easy to follow the path your heart tells you to take. Funnily enough, I’ve often just listened to that voice and that’s how I ended up here in Australia. This was the place my heart was telling me to go. And yet, this year, I gagged my heart, knocked it unconscious and listened to common sense instead. I needed a job.
I needed to work full-time.
I needed to make sure money was never going to be an issue.
Duh, of course you need to work and to earn money. How else are you going to survive? It made sense. But what I didn’t do was to make sure that I also allowed for my soul to sing. And the way my soul does that is by creating stories. I did not do that. Instead, I became someone else. Someone that isn’t me at all. Someone who let his job consume his being and that was it. I was reduced to my job title and that chipped away at my being, bit by bit.
By the time Christmas came around this year, I wasn’t sure what I was meant to celebrate. I feel like I’ve accomplished absolutely nothing. I feel like all I’ve done is put some coins in a tin and that’s about it.
But then the universe once again came to my rescue. I’ve got to say that I feel pretty lucky that the universe keep slapping some sense into me.
I was talking with someone and the conversation turned into how I saw myself in the future. As in, not the distant future, but more immediate. What do I see myself doing next year? 5 years from now? They asked me, point blank:
Where does your future lie?
And my heart was loud and clear: Writing.
I answered with honesty, as I always like to do.
I felt great when I said it, I felt true to myself.
So here we are, I am still recovering from a shit year but that’s it: I am recovering.
I am feeling my heart lighten as the New Year approaches and I feel my mind beginning to break down the blocks that have been there all year.
It’s not an easy road ahead but I don’t care. This is what I am meant to be doing. I am a storyteller and I am done silencing my heart.
2019 will be different.
I’ll work hard.
I’ll fall.
But more importantly: I’ll keep going.
Fuck common sense.
My heart and soul are now taking flight.
Raphael Farmer 