Posted by Katrina Roets at 7:14 PM
Monday, February 29, 2016
My writing became limited to Facebook posts, occasional tweets, and even more occasional reviews. As my mental health issues grew worse, I found it was easier to give in to the silence. I convinced myself, or maybe the depression convinced me, that I didn't need to write, that I had nothing left to share with the world and if I did, no one was listening. Instead, I took other people's words and I tweaked them. I poured pieces of myself into other people's work. I became an editor. I took pride in my work and when something went to print, it was as if I were still putting a piece of myself out into the world.
That's changing. I find myself frustrated that they're not my words. Recently, a story that I did the editing on went to print and even the author didn't give me public credit for the work that I had done. I knew the publisher wouldn't put my name in the book, but I thought the author would thank me when he thanked others. Except, he didn't. It hurt. I'd never had that happen before. My authors always have made sure that I got credit when it was due.
Now, I find myself wondering if I'm still a writer. Are the words still there inside of me? Can I put them down again and make them sing? Can I find that part of me again that was one that I cherished the most and was the hardest to let go? Or am I destined to just be the tweaker of everyone else's words, silent in my work, an unsung hero in the publishing world? Or worse, will this part of me continue to fade away until it's gone completely?
Or is this the first step?
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