I write for a living but seldom do my words make me feel something. I think it’s a lot to do with overdoing something. The essence is killed in excess. When you keep writing and editing all day long, you tend to forget how every sentence comes with its baggage of words crafted together for a purpose and is meant to move people towards varied interpretations. Even as you write with reason and push people towards adding a new dimension to the way they see the world, you lose track of what the process does to you. For you, words seemingly come easy but somehow they start to lose meaning along the way.
The joy you felt when you saw your first sentence where algorithms couldn’t find an error starts to feel distant. Seeing your name against your words starts feeling like a result of a chore instead of an indulgence. The rush of feeling the air beneath your wings on being paid for your words goes missing. It’s your bread and butter now, not just something you have steadily grown to be passionate about.
In times like these, perhaps out of desperation, I start seeking (more) meaningful work. I try to write something that is not meant to help me earn a living. I read more and try to tug and push at the horizons of my words. I tussle with them, as I did years ago, making the tough ones fall in line and befriend me. Oddly, it helps me stay being this person who is forever on the lookout for better, more words to come her way.
And, I wouldn’t have it any other way.