The Growth of Abandonment

It’s good to be back.

The words stare up at me judgingly. Graphite loops and slashes barely take up a quarter of the first line. The first attack against the defending army of blank space: one mechanical pencil against the rest of the lined paper. 

The first sentence was easy to write down with fast, confident strokes. Too easy.

“It’s a cliche,” I groan. I remember that much about writing at least. It also sounds more like an ending statement than an opening hook, now that I’m thinking about it. Maybe I actually don’t remember anything at all.

But what is there to remember, really? There’s no secret trick to writing. You put words down on the page, paper or screen, with pen or keyboard. A typewriter if you’re feeling particularly nostalgic. A fountain pen if you’re feeling fancy, pretentious, or both. 

As long as you write, you’re a writer. 

That’s what I’ve told countless other people, encouraging them in any step of the creative process. I’ve said the same thing to adoring fans, eager interviewers, and curious relatives. There’s no secret. The only thing you need to do to be a writer is to start writing. I’ve said that with the assurance of a wise master and the experience of a hardened veteran that’s fought a million battles.

So why do I feel like a newborn foal, stumbling over every half step away from my mother’s comforting warmth?

I let go of the pencil with a heavy sigh. I’m not too proud to deny it’s melodramatic. Maybe some melodrama is what I need. I’m not going to get anywhere with a dull start. That’s the most important part, after all. If the beginning doesn’t work, there’s no salvaging the rest of the piece. The pen lands with a dull thud, barely a whisper, on the yellow notepad. 

“Maybe I should just give up,” I say into the empty air. There’s no one here. The cat has politely, and apathetically, left me alone in my office. What was originally the office at least. It’s more accurate to call it a storage room now. 

The floor is covered in boxes and dust of every imaginable variety, as much as the paper is empty of words and inspiration. Cardboard boxes, translucent plastic boxes in every color of the rainbow, brand name shoe boxes. They’re scattered across every corner of the room and then some. A constellation of neglect.

Maybe this is what my mind looks like, I muse. Ideas just waiting to be dusted off and organized with the help of experienced hands, ready to be made useful with loving care. I have the experience, rusty as it may be, but I don’t have the love. Dust comes from only one source. 

Abandonment.

Saying I quit doesn’t feel right. It feels like speaking in a foreign language that I’ve never even heard of before. The way my lips split apart and pull back to release the lone syllable feels like betrayal. There would be an empty valley where my mouth should be. Saying it doesn’t make me sad. Just weird. 

I’m not lying when I say that. I don’t regret stopping. I needed to. Writing hadn’t been something that I had loved for a while, before I put the pen down for the last time. It felt cruel to both the art and myself to force out sentences meant to be read. The metaphorical horse wasn’t quite dead, but it was buried.

I had told everyone I was done. Not quitting, but done. 

And everyone accepted it. It was a good run, fans said without tears. Best not to burn out, critics said in op-eds and blog posts. You deserve a break, family said with proud smiles. They weren’t wrong. I had a star-studded repertoire and a meteoric rise to fame over five long years.

But the truth is that I never really quit writing. The act of putting words together is grinded so thoroughly into my bones that I could never really get away from it. I haven’t touched any notepads, word processors, or even restaurant napkins in a neat and tidy ten years. I packed up my lucky pencils in an ornate box, an old gift from Grandmother after the publishing of my first book. I hid all the old drafts and urges into locked file cabinets, literally and figuratively.

But nothing could really stop me from just thinking about writing. It felt like a guilty pleasure, hidden in the deepest recesses of my mind from any prying eyes. Passing a stranger on the street and coming up with the perfect adjective for their coat, taking a bite of fresh pastry and finding the perfect phrase for the flavor, smelling fresh flowers and coming up with the perfect metaphor. I left those all to waste away in forgotten cabinets, growing spiderwebs and sowing seeds of dissatisfaction. But spiderwebs are always eventually abandoned, and seeds can’t grow without light.

My writing muscles and mind stayed dormant. There was never any opening of windows, a well-meaning army of feather dusters, or midnight flashes of inspiration. There didn’t need to be. I was satisfied with what I had accomplished.

So why am I here? Why am I staring listlessly at empty boxes in a lonely room with dust and frustration my only companions? Even as I ask, I know the answer.

Boredom.

The most powerful force in the world is action, the root of everything that happens. Without the first spark that lights the fire, nothing burns. I was stagnant for too long. Building a collection of old papers is the perfect recipe for a bonfire. I needed to do something, anything, to scratch the dull itch in the back of my mind. It never really left, I realize now. I just ignored it.

If something grows in neglect, it’ll be stubborn. It can’t be ignored when it reaches a certain point. I think I ended up feeding it anyways. Hunger is the best cook, or so the saying goes.

Sitting back down in front of this desk felt like stretching muscles familiar only in the way they protest at the slightest strain. My joints creaked but still swiveled in the right directions. The pencil’s still on the page. The space is waiting to be filled up with anything. The ingredients are all here. Just the cook is left.

I just don’t know how to start. There are five words on the paper, but they’re not calling out to me.

But they don’t need to. This revelation feels like sinking into bed at the end of the day. The start is whatever I make it to be. I feel a smile growing on my face like the first rays of the sun at dawn. I pick up the pencil.

One line goes through the first four words. Striking through feels more gratifying than anything ever has before. The universally accepted carrot is placed on top, an intruder into the otherwise pristine header. There’s only one step left.

I press the next two letters harder into the paper. The start is the most important part. I’m not going to forget that.

It’s good to be I’m back.