Tag Archives: writer’s block

Where I’ve Been

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If you’re reading this, I first want to thank you for sticking with me this long. I started this blog exactly six years ago in the same year and only a few short months before the world was going to shutdown due to a global pandemic. Since then, I’ve accomplished so much that I wanted as a writer, including self-publishing my own book— during a week-long power outage in my area. I can’t say that second part was in my plans when I envisioned publishing my debut book, but if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that nothing ever goes strictly as planned.

You may have noticed my long absence on this site, and for that, I have no excuses. Since writing and releasing my book, I’ve been stuck in a long period of intense writer’s block. The same place I was in five months ago, during my last blog post celebrating one year of my book—the last time that I’ve written anything.

I’ve discussed it here before but I’ll say it again that it’s a tough feeling—to feel like I’m no longer a writer, because the words to say have simply not come to me in so long. But what I’ve realized is that I will always be a writer, and writing will always be a part of who I am, even during periods when I am not creating. This is certainly not the last you’ve heard from me, and I look forward to a long future doing what I love to the most.

So where have I been? I’ve been spending time with those I love most— my family and friends. I’ve been making an effort to take more pictures, to encapsulate all moments—to the smallest, seemingly trivial days to the more significant times this year, such as meeting a new family member!

In this new year, when I’m not creating, I wish to read more works from those who inspire me— a goal I’ve always set, but admittedly, have yet to fulfill completely. This shall be made possible now that I’ve acquired the book The Poetry of Emily Dickinson, someone I admire deeply. She’s a young woman who never realized her full potential, whose goal was never to write to publish and be seen, but simply for herself because she genuinely loved the art itself. She’s proof that despite what “success” may mean in the aspect of one’s career, notoriety might not even come until our days have long passed on this Earth. Like Dickinson, I too write for nobody but myself, to satiate this itch, this calling from within my soul. Despite this, in the new year I will work on improving my self-promotion, so one day the world knows about my words, and projects such as my book, that I put my soul into.

So looking ahead to this new year of 2026, and moving forward, I think the question isn’t about where I’ve been, but where I’m going.

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Happy New Year!

Writer’s Block

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Her mind is blank, but if these walls could talk for her, only then might you fathom the extent of her suffering. In the dead of night, they watch as she wakes gasping for air as if a cinder block has come crashing down onto her chest. While on solid ground she’s falling, losing her grip by the second, slipping farther while her aching fingertips are desperately trying to hold on.

Wandering aimlessly, she hasn’t a clue what she’s searching for. She’s trapped in a mirror maze of pure nothingness, accompanied only by several of her own helpless reflections staring back at her. She scours every corner, but amidst the flashing lights she’s lost all sense of direction.

The walls of this glass box she’s in cave, and through the thickening air she screams, yet nobody can hear her. All that’s on the tip of her tongue is the saltiness of her tears. She’s tormented by the the deafening silence inside her head.

What a beautiful tragedy it is for a writer’s heart to carve its own wounds. She lies awake on nights like these, tossing and turning, listening for distant murmurs. The closer they get, the clearer they sound and she can begin to slowly stitch her heart back together.

She remains restless until her heart is woven by the strings of all the words she’s for so long been trying to find. The mere presence of a single thought reinvigorates her entire being. At last she can breathe again.

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As this final day of August was nearing, I feared I had nothing to say. I was experiencing the most intensely horrifying feeling any writer could have: writer’s block. I always thought there was no feasible way to put in to words the feeling of not knowing what to write about, as someone it should come so easily to. But, I thought, what if there was? And so, as I lay restless in bed one late night, I typed a list of words to describe all that I was feeling: panic, confusion, frustration, and so on. In doing so, suddenly my mind was filled with constellations of letters forming all the right words to give you this melodramatic tale.