I’ve been on a literary kick.
For the last month I’ve been reading and writing more than I have since starting college. I haven’t turned on my television in over a week, and I haven’t gone a single day without picking up a book or a pen. I feel like I did when I was a young(er); when I could lose myself in a sea of words, and cocoon myself in printed pages. The comfort, contentment, and excitement of reading and the release, invigoration, and thrill of writing made the hours spent in those pursuits feel more meaningful than any and all time put in to more “productive” activities like work and school.
I had forgotten what it felt like.
Like many adults, the responsibilities of daily life often drain me of any motivation to do much more than sit on the couch and watch Hulu at the end of the day. Work, chores, and side-hustles consume most daylight hours, leaving only a hour or two to try to relax before going to bed so you can get the rest you need to repeat the entire day over again. Reading, writing, painting, dancing, and any other hobbies you had in high school and (maybe) college fall to the wayside as you get older, until they become little more than memories. I remembered by love of words- but I couldn’t seem to engage with the language arts as I used to. I managed to squeeze in a book here and there, and post a blog or two each month, but they didn’t bring the same soul-filling enjoyment that it used to. I was in the midst of a literary drought, and I wasn’t sure how I got there.
Then, the words started flowing again.
Like flood gates slowly releasing to allow a river to run once more, something unlocked my literary gate. Suddenly, I found myself writing and submitting my work to publications. I was editing old pieces I hadn’t touched in years, and finishing pieces I left on hiatus for months. I found an insatiable hunger to read again; new books, old books, and WebTunes I had lost interest in were suddenly irresistible. I went from passively consuming media, to hours of active engagement, and it felt like being jumping into a pool of water a hot day; shocking and invigorating as comforting and familiar.
I don’t know what sparked this flame.
I wish I knew what inspired this literary revival so I could recreate it at will. The truth is, I don’t know what caused this sudden change. Whether this literary turn is going to be a brief resurgence, or a renaissance in my life, there’s no way to know. I do know that I won’t waste this opportunity while it is in my grasp. I intend to hold on to this energy and passion for as long as I can, and nurture this flame so it doesn’t burn out again.
Bringing Mae Flowers 