Deconstructing my Writer's Block

I have always been a girl who writes yet afraid to call myself a writer. Since I was a little girl with wide-ruled spiral notebooks out the wazoo, I would make time daily and nightly to scribble about my day, doodle my childhood milestones, scribble my married name in hearts and dedicate myself to poems and letters. My pen pals spanned from Gramz to my sisters, from my middle school friends via their Sequoia MS lockers to my classmates and travel buddies around the globe. I bought journals every month at the Scholastic Book Fair; I had a diary for every year or occasion, oftentimes filled them with Polaroids and magazine clippings in addition to deepest loves and fears. As I entered adulthood and began traveling, I moved my die-hard hobby from leather bound notebooks to what felt like a virtual billboard; somewhere I could bare my soul for the occasional road-tripping passerby across the world-wide web to see. It was frightening.

As blogs often do, mine had a dual purpose; not only for me to collect and interpret my thoughts and experiences but also for my family (and closest confidantes only) to follow my goings-on. It began whilst in Hong Kong, circa Summer 2011 - a trip that bold and exotic warranted a log of my adventures, right? It was an inexplicably invaluable tool, space and companion in which I could confide, find solace and figure myself out… as I was oftentimes lonely, overwhelmed, homesick, confused-in-love, nostalgic and ecstatic all at the same time. However, all the while there was a certain rose-colored tint layered over my thoughts and feelings; since my blog had a [minimal-as-it-was] following, I couldn’t say EVERYTHING going on my mind and body and soul, now could I? I found, looking back, that I was sometimes writing for an audience, the people and the strangers whom I hoped would deem me adventurous, vulnerable yet still strong and insightful. 

The same rang true as my life and circumstances evolved; I came home to LA, began anew on a different side of town and embarked on the journey of post-college adulthood like many of us have: 20-something and excited but clueless. I wrote snippets, I reposted inspirational quotes and I shared photos of my new milestones, new views a la West Hollywood, CA. I wanted to seem strong, as-if-I-had-it-together, but I also maintained my dedication to vulnerability, fearfulness and honesty in my writing. This seems to be around the time that I realized that I write for a few reasons: to figure things out, yes, and undoubtedly to "taste life twice” (my favorite quote to date about the purpose of writing, discovered on an average spiral-bound journal from Target Boutique) — but also to inspire someone, anyone else out there on this Earth to bare their soul in the same way. I had my array of new experiences, of now-adult-ish milestones and countless #firstworldproblems, and all the while I knew my writing about these and documenting the transformation and evolution occurring within me would someday help perhaps one soul (if only my own) survive this world a tad more easily. 

One month and one year ago, I moved into the gorgeous, eclectic, mysterious and coveted city of San Francisco - so naturally, it was time for me to re-brand my blog and cut to a new chapter - perhaps even begin “Part II “of the story of extra-Cordinary (see: my blog’s unique URL). For whatever reason, however, after my initial move and that symbolic drive up the CA-101 North mentioned several posts before this one, I came upon a heavy and relentless case of writer’s block. I could blame the plethora of new experiences or the time-suck of countless adventures and new relationships; it might have been the lack of certainty and confidence in who I was/where I belonged in this town, or the simple fear of failing to seem and sound like I “had-it-together” whilst embarking on this windy journey. Regardless of why, I simply slipped into a routine-less and sporadic habit of writing single sentences, journaling in the “old-school” fashion via a new paper journal, and collecting ideas and outlines and stream-of-consciousness paragraphs in my Evernote.

Recently inspired by a piece on Medium by Jon Westenberg, entitled simply “30 Reasons Why I Write,” I felt that the best way to deconstruct my hypochondriatic, excuse-of-a-case of writers’ block would be to ponder the reasons why I do. Write, that is. So here it goes. Welcome back readers. I feel like I’m on a roll and bursting with realizations from the past 1+ year. 

1. Writing is soothing. 

2. Writing is meditative. Distractions disappear when I get into a writer’s flow. 

3. Writing feels productive. There’s a deliverable I can share and measure (even if only by word-count). 

4. Writing enables me to leave a legacy. I am inspired, fulfilled and simply pumped by the fact that I’ve created something that no one can duplicate and no one can erase. 

5. Writing is clarifying. I often reach an eventual point of realization, an “a-ha” moment, once I’ve hashed my honest feelings and observations via the keys on my Mac. 

6. Writing offers a friend who never interrupts. It doesn’t judge; only listens. Maybe this is why I’ve never sought out therapist. Hmm.

7. Writing comforts me. In the same vein as the friend above, writing is the companion in whom I can share my inner most thoughts that I keep even from myself, at times. 

8. Writing is efficient in that I can tell my story for the people I care about to read and experience together. 

9. Writing is less scary than confronting people or the truth. Vulnerability, fear of rejection, anxiety et al fade away as quickly as they guard and lock away our secrets in the real world. (see: all the letters I never delivered to long-lost-loves of middle school days). 

10. Writing is a fail-safe. Most of us fear losing things, from keepsakes in a house-fire to the people we love to cancer. I can’t lose the thoughts or experiences that have made me who I am to time, death, or life if I document them, write them down. 

To soaking up and writing down San Fran-fucking-cisco. 

Cory