I’m still figuring out how to become consistent with writing again.
I don’t think my way back is going to come from forcing myself to suddenly write thousands of words every day or pretending the last several years didn’t affect me.
It will probably happen much more quietly.
One paragraph.
One scene.
One conversation between characters.
Maybe one day I’ll look up and realize that a paragraph became a page, a page became a chapter, and a chapter became another finished book.
But I’m trying not to make finishing the book the only thing that matters.
Right now, opening the document matters.
Thinking about my characters matters.
Writing badly matters.
Writing fifty words matters.
Because every time I do, I’m reaching toward a part of myself that I thought I had lost.
And maybe picking up writing again isn’t really about becoming the writer I was before everything happened.
Maybe it’s about discovering the writer I am now.
She has been through more.
She’s tired.
She’s changed.
But she still has stories to tell.
And I’m beginning to think that might be enough reason to start.