Well.
The beast of prose has lain dormant inside me for quite some time as other, seemingly more pressing matters dominated my attention. Matters such as overhauling my entire life after my move to Florida (nearly 5 years ago now); beginning and nourishing a new (now seasoned) relationship; birthing and raising several new or evolved business ventures; relocating to the (most recent) city of my dreams.
And now: surviving the pandemic in whatever way I can.
It became apparent to me through exploratory meditative therapy that the absence of writing in my life (aside from the mandatory business blogs and social media captions) was taking a huge toll on my soul’s mental health. It became clear– quite abruptly and almost too obviously– that the largest part of me that had thrived off of the written word had been starving for years. I had been ignoring the rumbling in my gut, dismissing it for the wellbeing of other newfound passions; until I could no longer deny that those carnal base notes sending shock waves through my bones were actually the sound of the beast awakening.
It did not stir quietly. The words burst forth again compulsively, stopping me in my tracks and demanding to be recorded with the same insistence they had so many years ago. It was: exhilarating; overwhelming; powerful.
This platform is completely foreign territory to me now, after a couple of years’ worth of neglect and what feels like a lifetime of transformation in between, but it was familiar to me once. So naturally I return to it as a safe space to begin again. It may not be clean, or well organized, or aesthetically pleasing at first. But the most important thing is to honor the desire– the necessity– to write again.
And so, as the beast and I awaken and take to the task of stretching our wings,
The Writer's Block 