It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote anything. It’s been over a month since I did any serious writing at all. Not good for somebody who aspires to actually make a living out of the written word, is it?

The longer it’s gone on the more pressure I’ve felt to start writing consistently again. And the more that pressure has built up, the more the mental resistance has grown. It’s the usual story whenever one falls off the wagon, whether that be with dieting, exercise or quitting a vice.

But… I’ve worried whether this might be something else. I’ve started doubting my ability to do it any more. How did I manage to write every day? How did I maintain that level of creativity?

Maybe I’ve lost my enthusiasm, my hunger. Maybe all the rejections have worn me down. Maybe the exhaustingly slow turnaround of just about anything writing related has left me jaded. Maybe I should now be looking at other career options. Or maybe not.

Thinking about it now, I’ve been writing pretty consistently for around eight years, without any significant breaks. I’ve completed three books, started a few more. So I’m telling myself to chill the fuck out. Writing is a long term game. A few months off is nothing compared to the amount of time I’ve actually been writing. It’s all relative.

And what’s more, I’m still learning and reading, thinking and developing. Writing isn’t just about the actual writing, as odd as that might sound, and this break has really reminded me of that. The day I come across something interesting or inspirational and don’t immediately think, “I can make a great story out of that,” is the day I know I’m really done.