I guess I’d ask why you feel that way? Is it because you don’t think your work is any good? That it’s repetitive? That you’re lacking inspiration? It’s kind of hard to give specific advice, but I’m going to cheat by invoking a writer I admire:
"Nobody can advise you, nobody. There is only one single means. Go inside yourself. Discover the motive that bids you write; examine whether it sends its roots down to the deepest places of your heart, confess to yourself whether you would have to die if writing were denied you. This before all: ask yourself in the quietest hour of your night: must I write? Dig down into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be in the affirmative, if you may meet this solemn question with a strong and simple, ‘I must,’ then build your life according to this necessity.” — Letters to a Young Poet, by Rainer Maria Rilke
I read this as a fifteen year-old, and it has been a formative text for me as a writer. It easily is one of my favorite books ever. Rilke is soft and sincere, and his letters give advice that rings true to me. I highly recommend it because it’s short (ten letters) and insightful.
I believe that I must write. I would die if writing were denied me. So even on days, or weeks, or months where writing feels impossible and inaccessible, I keep going, I keep trying, because I must. As difficult as they are, I trust words. I trust that one day I’ll chance across words that resonate and tell the story I’ve been wanting to tell.
That said, if you need to take a break, that’s okay too. If we exercise too much, we overexert and hurt ourselves. Then we can’t do what we need to do. So ask that question, “Must I write?” and perhaps you’ll find the direction you need to go in that answer. Best of luck :)
space kittens and feminist icons,
I think that’s how we knew each other
at first, but sometimes you make friends
through sharing tears at the dinner table
on those days when we must ask others to help us
remember to be kind to ourselves,
I want to thank you for being my secret snowflake,
for building our strength as we did blanket forts,
for sharing a foundation with me.
and this year, I think sophomoric
means our feet fit in our mother’s boots
but we still have some damn big shoes to fill,
that we’re still clumsy, and bruises will bloom
when we are not yet awake,
that we’ll keep a losing hand in our pockets
and our thirsts will not slake,
but your eyes are like your tinseled hair,
refracting the light of our little days,
and I trust that. I trust the sunrise
and the ways it chooses to color your skin honey
honey I can see the stars all the way from here
I trust your small hands and how they held mine
then, in the swelling sea of strangers.
Trust those hands now.
You’ve got sunrise palms
and when you reach with them,
the day starts with brilliance, anew.
Don’t say “I’m not like other girls.”
Be like other girls and meld with other girls and become one with the glorious mass of writhing womanhood that will roll over the towns and the cities and devour all space and all time.
i like how our response to day-to-day shitty events of misogyny/homophobia/etc has officially become this brand of nightmarish surrealism and it genuinely makes me feel better