I’m having trouble writing longform pieces lately, though I don’t know if you could call a nearly thousand word essay longform (actually, I know the answer to that: you don’t). Tweets and Instagram captions are easier, though sometimes those are hard for me, too. As fun as microblogging can be, it’s not the same as an actual blog.
Writing was easier when I could write about anything, when I was confident in what I had to share. Maybe it’s a byproduct of getting older and becoming more responsible, but so many of my stories now are entangled with others, of times and places and happenings that don’t belong to just me. It’s harder to write publicly when that’s the case. Some of these limits are just common sense (I don’t write about work), while others are self-imposed (I don’t want to write about my family or friends or relationship unless they are okay with it).
I also wonder, too, of how the role of writing in my life is evolving. I used to write every day, privately. Then I wrote every day, publicly. Now I hardly write privately or publicly. It’s not what I want, but it’s also not as discomforting as I would have imagined it to be. It happened so gradually, and other things have stepped in to fill the void of not writing. But even so, not writing makes me feel like a piece of me is missing, even if I fear I don’t know how to write anymore.