They stopped writing because when they began writing, it was to show love to themselves and offer a gift to others – but that love was thrown back in their face, and they didn’t know how to process that, not understanding that true validation does not come from others but from SELF.
They stopped writing because the author community was becoming deleterious and draining, and they felt as if they had no support.
They stopped writing because they are prone to phases, and it was not their true passion to begin with – just something on the bucket list, and it had run its course.
They stopped writing because it used to be their medicine and their sense of sovereignty, but now, it has become their poison and their prison.
Here is the thing: many of your favorite authors that disappeared have NOT actually stopped writing…
THEY STOPPED PUBLISHING.
There are stories on their computers right now, this very second, I can assure you, written from start to finish, but they are not on Amazon or Barnes and Noble, or anywhere online available for public consumption. Those stories may go to the grave with them.
There isn’t usually just one person, situation, or thing to blame for this. If they wish to write again for the community, they merely have to find that desire again. The same fire that was extinguished because of all of the reasons above.
For many of us, writing is a drug, but this drug has side-effects, too:
Lack of quality sleep.
Constant brainstorming and brain fog.
Irritability.
Manic behavior.
Overeating and under-eating.
Hyperactivity and under activity.
Bouts of anger, depression, and sudden joy.
Feelings of high self-esteem, feelings of lowliness.
It’s a time killer, a tearjerker, and a headache inducer.
…And yet, we keep doing it.
The problem with authors caught in this limbo is that many of us are ‘people pleasers.’ Entertainers, artists, and creators unfortunately often are. We want to make the world a happier place, and if we feel we aren’t meeting that goal, or it’s constantly at our own expense, that’s when the disengagement and unhappiness occurs, and we’re no longer content or motivated. If it no longer gives us the same high or better, we will turn away, and try to find something else that does. Writing often continues to be the drug of choice – but we take our dose in private. For those of us still showing our ‘book babies’ to the world, this is our struggle. As a reader, you watch us—those of us that are obsessed with writing—‘get high’ in front of you.
You read the books we wrote during these euphoric states of creation. There is always this feeling when it is complete that is hard to describe, and it may be different for many of us, but for me, it’s a mixture of enthusiasm, bliss, and anxiety. I told my readers that sometimes, when I write, it’s like I am in a trance. I don’t even recall writing some pages of the novels I’ve penned. I have sat down and re-read books I’ve written some time ago, and did not remember a good portion of them, especially several years later – so it was like a surprise or first read for me, too.
I know that sounds crazy, but I’m serious. When I’m in the zone, I’m in the zone, and when it’s time to enter a new world with a new WIP (work in progress), that’s what I do. This is not like a short poem or song that I’ve written and memorized. It is hundreds of pages telling one single story. Feelings are explored. Scenes are detailed. The lovely part is when we forget something we wrote, then bring up something that has slipped our mind in our readers’ group or just make it a social media post, and within seconds, someone answers the question about whatever book we are discussing, explaining what we’ve forgotten about right away. This is beautiful and enchanting, encouraging and humbling.
The readers—that is, YOU—know the characters in these books frontwards and backwards. Inside and out. You know their hearts, as well as their names, claims, and shames.
And yet, time is kind to the characters from the viewpoint of the reader, albeit not to authors as we try to get out of one world, the one we created, and re-enter our own. The real one. The lines blur. Time waits for no one, so we must either continue to write, or write differently, or stop. Stopping is not an option for me. That would be cruel and unusual punishment. Respecting time, in all of its limitations, is what was needed.
Is time abstract? Is it relative? Is it static?
It’s one of the few things that once we lose it, we can never get back. Time respects no one. It gives of itself, and when it’s gone, it’s gone. We can stay stagnant and disgruntled, or we can make a change for our betterment. Time will show you examples, give you lessons to learn, and if you allow it, a reason for a metamorphosis within you to take place. None of us can go back in time; we can only move forward and make better use of it. Time can be kind, and time can be cruel. Like when we lose a loved one.