I’ve become a different writer.
It took slightly longer than these short nine months, but I have finally pulled my head through the fog and understand what has been wrong in my writing. I am a different writer, and I have been trying to write in my old style.
I have always used my writing as therapy, and in my past writing, I would write about love. The love I wanted, the love I didn’t know I missed or still sought after. I wrote about the passion and safety I longed for and was missing in my relationships. But all those wants, fears, and anxieties are gone. I finally feel complete in that part of my life, and now those feelings have been shifted elsewhere.
Now I am worried about something far more important. I am concerned about my daughter. I wonder what kind of mother I will turn out to be. I think about the world she will live in and the troubles and tribulations she will face. All of these things are coming out in my drafts and writing prompts.
I’ve written multiple blog drafts about how I’ve embraced becoming a mother and the different emotions and feelings I’ve faced, but none have felt natural. Everything I’ve read back to myself has felt forced and placating an audience I’ve yet to meet.
It’s been a slow adjustment for me, but I think I’ve finally come to terms with the new narrative that is living inside me. New characters want out, and I have been ignoring them, not understanding what they’ve been trying to tell me. I hope that now I know where my old characters have gone and the new ones who have replaced them. I’ll be able to do more than to fill up pages and throw them away.
