Just two weeks ago I realized why I’m blocked and I can’t write a single word. I’m a writer who does not write. Writing was all my life, words, grammar and literature was all my life.
When I stare at that white sheet I’m feeling like a grumpy grandmother who is judging me. It’s so uncomfortable.
I tried to analyse this bad feeling, going deep on my mind, trying to remember when I precisely stopped to write just for the pleasure to do it.
I was 18 and I lost my inspiration.
Being adult made me more rational and less passionate.
I’m scared about what I’m going to write, to be not good enough. Writing for me it’s a clear declaration of what I thought and now bad thoughts are more than the good ones. I used to write stories about young and passionate girls, who fight for their lives. Now I start to write and five minutes later I’m wondering about saving money to pay my car. And I waste my time.
I’m seriously addicted to Netflix, and no, it’s not a good thing. I waste my time watching things I don’t even enjoy just to spend time instead to do something useful.
I enjoyed the time when I opened the window of my flat in Rome, during a incredibly hot summer. It was night and I wrote energically on my brand new macbook air (which I’m still using to write this post), smoking a slim cigarette. Now, I light a cigarette only when I’m incredibly stressed because of my job (not soclassy). My mind was full of projects and ideas.
I have to find again that state of mind.