Rediscovering A Passion

        It was a fortunate accident happening upon it again. A passion she’d left on standby marking time until it could be rediscovered. A talent buried beneath the ever-expanding responsibilities of her life. Put on the back burner as if it had no importance. She didn’t mean to forget what the words meant to her. She had just lost sight of the gift she had, extorting it only for professional purposes. The grave limitations of her work had suffocated her joy for the art. Even after she’d escaped the weight of her profession her literary inspiration laid dormant, left behind with the bones of her career.

               She was trapped in the lion’s den searching for a way out when opportunity found her. It presented itself to her as if it was her destiny. An escape only possible if funded by monetary value, she was reminded that she had a skill capable of profit. Except now she had the freedom to let her creativity flourish. She put her fingers to the keys and let the words flow. Her first piece of work was easy, the emotions were there and the repressed words were ready to be released. She published it on multiple platforms hoping to draw in readers. Her second piece of work was just as simple, but it wasn’t long before she ran into difficulties.

               She longed for the olden days when the words would light up her paper. When writing was a requirement rather than an option they seemed to rush from her mind to her hands. Boring analytical essays and dry business documents used to write themselves for her. She would pump them out faster than the printer it seemed. Now she was overwhelmed by writer’s block. She would sit at her computer for hours waiting for the thoughts to form into a work of art. It was so draining to feel so empty and uninspired that she would fall asleep in front of her unformed masterpieces. She tried all sorts of methods to stimulate her creativity. Music and a dark room to set the mood, companionship of a friend, the caffeinated power of an energy drink were all powerless against her hindered vision. It took an entire change of scenery to spark her imagination.

               On a clear and cool June day she went out to her backyard and began to set the environment. She filled the firepit with wood and set it ablaze, warm crackling flames began to grow. She pulled two chairs up to the fire and sat in one as she put her feet up on the other. She covered herself with a blanket before letting her pup jump up to nestle himself on her legs. She grabbed her laptop, rested it on her lap, and turned on some music. She allowed herself a moment to take everything in before composing a single word. She felt cozy warm, not just from being under the blanket next to the fire, but the sun shone down brightly on the ground. A cool breeze blowing to the west kept her comfortable, and the trees rustling to compliment the sound of her music. She took a deep breath and exhaled, she could smell the alluring scents of her neighbors barbequing. You’d think the smell would have made her hungry, but instead it brought her contentment. A nostalgic feeling of a carefree summer filled her energy, she felt light and clear headed. Placing her fingers on the keyboard she began to type away letting the words fill the page.

               Even when inspiration finally struck she struggled with the damage her time away from her craft had done. She wasn’t as good as she once was, and she admitted to herself that she was rusty. Her once beautifully written and commended works had faded into merely mediocre documents. Her grammar had suffered and she’d forgotten the rules of proper writing. It was a self-imposed battle she’d have to face to regain the skills she once had, and this time she would have to do it alone. Although she had a natural born talent she wouldn’t have grown as much as a writer without the great teachers she once had to guide her. She longed for that same mentorship once again, those once important relationships had at one point provided a fulfillment she no longer had in her life. Still she knew that she had the tools to do this on her own. Armed with an online thesaurus she put herself to work rebuilding her vocabulary. Such facts reminded her of her millennial like dependence on the internet, being that it was primary resource. Nevertheless, she lived in an advancing world where she would be unreasonable not to use resources available to her.

               Of course, this included her family and friends. She could always depend on them for their input on her work. She welcomed constructive criticism and continuously sought it out. Her primary readers and reviewers consisted of her mom and close friend. She could always rely on them to lift up her work as well as provide honest feedback, but from time to time she felt the need to seek out other perspectives. On her more controversial pieces she would reach out to her relative who could provide an unbiased opinion. It was due to their support and encouragement that she was able to gain the confidence she needed to publish her works.

               Although she had created brilliant masterpieces in the past, she had never before shown so much commitment towards her writing. It was as if resurrecting her passion from the depths of her repressed afflictions had strengthened her love for her work. Just as well, the reclaimed outlet was just what she needed to continue managing her life in the lion’s den for the time being. The words gave her the ability to express herself and a distraction from the struggles she endured. Even her readers brought her little snippets of joy, reassuring her of the quality of her work by recognizing it’s value. She didn’t quite accomplish what she set out to do, but still she was eternally grateful that this route back to her passion brought her new meaning she had forgot she was missing.