(That’s a Beatles reference)

I used to write passionately about things. When I was in journalism school I had the ability to take information and turn it into something that flowed. I loved learning things that I never would have thought of and I would strive to create a story that people would read so they could learn things too.

Before that, when I was in high school, I wrote fiction. I loved creating stories and characters and details of lives I could never live. I dreamed of writing novels and being able toexplore things around the world through with pen and paper.

Right now it feels like I’ve lost that ability. It’s something I’m fairly desperate to regain. Whenever I sit down to write now, it always seems as though I’m writing in stream of consciousness about me, my life, my stresses, my feelings, and while I love journaliing, that’s no escape.

I think the problem is that I just don’t know where to start. It feels as though I’ve lost my imagination and my ability to have ideas. Somewhere along the way I went from having these fairy tale fantasies, to the complete dark, emo writing of my teenage years, to the non-fiction pieces in journalism school, to the unimaginative sports writing of my attempted and aborted journalism career, to university essays that garnered okay marks and now nothing.

I feel empty, as though I had my chance and used up all my creativity. I soared in my creative writing classes in high school and was showered in praise during in college and I miss it. I don’t have any audience anymore. I have no one to impress, no one to assign, and I’m lost.

I’m hoping that the right pen and notebook and the three weeks off I face at the end of this work day will bring that part of my back to life, but I just don’t know.

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