The strange thing is, I don’t think I ever completely stopped being a writer.
The stories kept appearing.
Characters still walked into my head at inconvenient times. Scenes played out while I was doing something completely unrelated. I would hear pieces of dialogue or suddenly know something about a character I hadn’t thought about in months.
They were still there.
I just wasn’t always able to put them on the page.
I’ve started realizing there is a difference between losing your creativity and simply being too exhausted to reach it.
Maybe mine wasn’t gone.
Maybe it was waiting.
That thought has helped me be a little kinder to myself.