I’ve been trying to write this blog post for six weeks.
It’s not like I have anything difficult to say, I just haven’t been able to write it.
Likewise, I haven’t been able to read anything either.
I’m a book blogger and yet I’ve not been able to read or write…I’m kind of screwed, aren’t I?
When you’re diagnosed with a mental health disorder, or a chronic illness, they don’t give you a list of what to expect, for the simple reason that the lists would never end, but one of the things you soon realise, is that the things you once loved doing suddenly feel like climbing mountains.
I’ve always been a creative person, but somehow, the things I love doing most feel beyond my reach.
My desire to read hasn’t gone away, I still yearn for a good story, but the simple act of reading is no longer simple, it’s an effort; the idea of reading a whole book in a day is a mammoth task where once it was an everyday occurrence.
Writing is made harder by the fact that I feel like I don’t have anything to say. Where once I could prattle on about anything, nowadays the first sentence alone feels impossible; my drafts folder has never been as full as it is right now, but it’s only full of half-hearted unfinished posts that I could never find the end of.
And all this has made me marvel at those authors who are able to keep writing through it all.
I think we take it for granted that an author must be able to write without abandon, but they’re only human (as ridiculous as that sounds: how can the holders of such imaginations be mere mortals like us?!).
So this is a hats off to every author who manages to push through the pain, both physical and mental, and produce the works of art, for the simple reason of bringing others joy.
I really don’t know how you do it, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart that you do.