Natasha Bedingfield was onto something when she released Unwritten.
Staring at the blank page before you. Oof. It’s like a dagger to the heart. Calling me out for every word I can’t seem to materialise on the page in front of me. She really did her big one with that.
When that song came out in 2004, my tween self couldn’t have imagined I’d still have it playing on loop in my head all these years later.
Do I understand what the song is about? No.
Do I know what it feels like? Hell yes.
Who hasn’t been caught up in the moment, belting it out at the top of their lungs like nobody’s watching? And I guess that’s the metaphor I’m running with. I don’t need to intellectualise the song to know it moves me. The same way my subconscious has been nagging me to write, even as I struggle to string a few words together.
I will say, it’s been great for my meditation practice, because nothing is as hypnotising as that blinking cursor.
Why not just let the writing thing go, you might ask? Well, I want that cathartic feeling, the one you get when you’ve purged your heart and soul onto the page. Or at least, that’s what it used to feel like.
I used to write like a girl possessed. Every day, every night, dreaming up scenes for my loyal eight readers on a site called Mibba, where I wrote fanfiction (don’t ask).
I couldn’t get enough of it. Or the adoration from my fans. Few, but demanding. Uploading a chapter late wasn’t even an option.
And now here I am, with nothing to write about and no one who cares.
Nobody tells you how hard it is to pick up your toys again once you’ve packed them away for more “adult” things. That’s what I was supposed to do, right? Grow up. Leave childish things behind.
So why does it feel so empty now?
It’s exhausting, constantly seeking permission from myself to have a good time. Now everything has a time and place. Rest has to be earned. Creativity becomes a reward for doing the thing that pays the bills.
It’s. So. Loud.
Loud enough to drown out the voice of your inner child.
Loud enough to stop you from enjoying yourself.
Loud enough to silence your intuition.
And yet, the thing stopping me from writing is surprisingly easy to trick. There it is. That spark again. And this time, I’m going to fan the flames.
On the cusp of the spring equinox, let the sun illuminate the words you couldn’t find.
The rest is still unwritten.