I used to write.

I used to write. I used to write a lot. It was mainly poetry - mad, chaotic, cathartic poetry - but I was happy that I was writing. I even tried my hand at a bit of prose. Always wanted to do more but never had the drive to actually follow through with it. I think the state that I am usually in when the urge to write hits is when I am hypomanic or full blown manic and that just isn't conducive to long term prose writing - at least not for me. Filling a page though, I can handle that. Jump from subject to subject with each fresh new page.

So why am I writing here now? I'm not sure to tell you the truth. I know that I miss writing, but that when I grab one of my old books and my favorite pens that nothing comes out. Well not nothing - a line or two but nothing more than that. I get the germ of an idea that used to spawn pages of verse and now it just fizzles out at a line. It's been that way for years now. I'm sure it has had a lot to do with all the medications. I also think it has something to do with being happier overall. Writing was a release, not a celebration, for me. So being more at peace these days makes it harder to find my muse - as she was always buried in anger, draped in angst and those aren't the seeds of my everyday mood anymore.

But I want to write. I enjoy it. So I will try this and see if it sparks the creativity back into my life. If nothing else I can babble on, maybe re-visit some of my old work and see if anything new comes from it.

Hopefully I can change that first line in time.

I used to write.