Bella Unblocked

I have a serious case of writers block; it's going on something like 5 years. As you may see in my profile, I claim to have the ability change the world with merely a stroke of my pen, but in honesty, all I do with a pen these days is jot down lunch orders and scribble grill slips.

http://www.nikkiwoodsmedia.com

Allow me to backtrack. I'm Isabella Kiss. Twenty something, joyously married, cat-mama, crafter of cuteness, cooker deliciousness, fitness fanatic, and part time waitress. I am, however, not a writer.

I once claimed that I was a writer- that I was born to write. That my existence on this planet hinged on the very purpose of penning words. I would write, and you would read what I had had written; of that there was no doubt in my mind.

Growing up, I wrote a lot. Something about blank paper had always drawn me. For as long as I can remember there have been stories in my head. Characters and scenes have ever played themselves out in my mind. It would seem that the Good Lord granted me some sort of excess in the department of imagination.

One fateful day in high school, for a reason I cannot recall, I picked up a pencil and began writing a story. About two days in I decided I needed to be an author and the story evolved into a book. By the end of my junior year, I had written a 350 page fantasy novel. My dream was that it, and many novels to follow, would see publication.That story was professionally edited and I began the process of seeking an agent or publisher who would take interest in my work. I had unrelenting passion. Perhaps overconfident, but I was doubtless, fearless and determined. I WAS MADE TO BE AN AUTHOR. I went into every major library and bookstore in my area and took a photo of the exact spot on the shelves where books penned under Isabella Kiss would one day sit. I was a dreamer with drive. I WAS GOING TO BE A WRITER.

While querying and searching for publication, I drafted sections of other novels and wrote short stories. I journaled. I blogged. I was writing on close-to-daily basis. After graduating, I took a course in freelancing and became certified as a freelance writer. I attended a college (mostly on scholarships obtained by writing) and received an associates (Summa Cum Laude) in Liberal Arts, in hopes that I would one day go on to obtain a degree in Creative Writing and become an influential youth author. Every English professor I encountered in my studies reaffirmed the fact that at least had the ability to write. Short works I wrote were published here and there in college publications, but nothing grand like I had imagined my illustrious literary career to be seemed to be unfolding.

Somewhere in there I also met a dashing young man who shared my interest in writing. Long story short, Once Upon a Time I married him and began an adventure as a military wife. Then, instead of focusing on my alleged writing career I took up other hobbies, other part time jobs, and other wifely duties. After his military time of military service came to an end, and we established ourselves in civilian life; he in school pursuing his dreams of being a master of computers, and I at a restaurant job delivering world famous burgers with crisped cheese wings. Happily ever after...

Somewhere in that settling down I settled. I grew tired of looking for a publisher to take interest in my work (confession: the effort I had put in was far some my best, due to fear of rejection). I distracted myself. I convinced myself I was just too busy to write. My daily soul-felt need to write became a chore I pushed to the end of my to-do list so I would run out of hours in the day before I wrote a single word.

Somewhere in a pile of manuscripts and query letter my passion for the pen had been quenched. Somehow I had smothered a fiery passion with stacks of unpublished paper. The writing stopped. The stories in my head disappeared. Any interest or inspiration I had once had was replaced with frustration and the attitude of a quitter. Insecurity of my words not being good enough to be read and fear of people's opinions and judgments overtook me, and rather than changing the world, anything I had to say was shoved in a filing cabinet never to see the light of day. I, being a very "all or nothing" sort of person, decided that if I wasn't easily obtaining my goal of publication, then I just wouldn't write at all.

People who love me continued to remind me "hey...didn't you write?" That man I married encouraged- begged- me to just pick up a pen and write something, anything at all, but I allowed frustration and "writers block" to stop me every time. I used every excuse and cast blame in all directions. I did a fair amount of adult tantrum throwing and crying. But the fact is, I quit. And I, not the publishing houses, not the military, not my husband, not my job, not anything other than myself, am to blame for that.

I am not a writer...at least not currently. I am a lot of great and wonderful things, but a writer is not one of them. I do many things well, but I do not write well because, currently, I do not write at all.

While I love my life as a wife and waitress, I know (mainly because my excellent husband insists on reminding me; he refuses let me distract myself and quit, much to my frustration) that there is something deep in me that still wants to change the world by my written word. At this point, I don't know if that is young adult fantasy or something entirely different. I've dabbled in the idea of journalism. I've drafted a children's book. I've played around with short stories. I've wondered about pursuing nonfiction. (I have, with certainty, ruled out poetry though!) I know that I definitely have an ability- a gifting- to write. I just don't know to write WHAT at the moment.

In hopes of figuring that out, I just need to write something in the meantime. Anything. I know I have been selling myself short and that I am capable of more- and I hate knowing that. I think I've reached the point where I finally hate it enough to stop making excuses, shedding pointless tears and being frustrated and actually take some action. Hence this blog. I have no idea what I am going to write, or if it will cause any readership I may gain mental suffering in reading it. Perhaps I will just be venting my jumbled aspiring author brains out into cyberspace, but the hope is that just letting words out of my head and into the open world will somehow conquer this "block" I have placed myself under and perhaps beat my fear of my words being judged.

I intend to experiment with writing prompts, free writing, tweaking existing story lines and perhaps dabbling in something resembling journalist nonfiction. Really, anything. I'm hoping that the "responsibility" of a blog will somehow trap me into writing on a regular basis, and maybe somewhere in my entrapment inspiration will strike and my prior passion will return. Even lousy writing is better than no writing, and sometimes just getting things flowing can lead to something spectacular. Or so I hope.  Truth told, I really don't know what I am doing here. Truth told, you may want to stop reading now. All I really know is writers write, so that is what I must do.