I’m not a writer anymore.

“There are three points of view from which a writer can be considered: he may be considered as a storyteller, as a teacher, and as an enchanter. A major writer combines these three—storyteller, teacher, enchanter—but it is the enchanter in him that predominates and makes him a major writer … The three facets of the great writer—magic, story, lesson—are prone to blend in one impression of unified and unique radiance, since the magic of art may be present in the very bones of the story, in the very marrow of thought …Then with a pleasure which is both sensual and intellectual we shall watch the artist build his castle of cards and watch the castle of cards become a castle of beautiful steel and glass.” —Vladimir Nabokov

“I am afraid I’ll never write again,” I confessed late last night among a whole litany of fears on Instagram. All of them felt by me intensely, but this one most of all.

Yet truth is, writing does not come easily for me. I’m not one who can sit down and pump out a week's supply of posts in an afternoon. I’m in awe of those who can, who offer fresh content like clockwork. Many times it takes all day for one moderately-sized post and by the end I am exhausted. It’s worth it, because words are my life, but it’s a true labor made of desire and love. By the end I might as well be collapsed limp and soaking wet on the floor.

Today I decided I’m done. I’m not a writer anymore. This fight is ridiculous. I am angry, I am sad, I am desperate. I am bursting at the seams with no words left. It’s not writer’s block I’m talking about. It is having everything to say and opening my mouth to silence. It is waking up in a foreign land and not speaking the native tongue. It is stuttering syllables and frustrated sighs. I make sense to no one. I’m trying too hard. I’m done.

I don’t want to be a writer anymore. I just want to be me. I want to tell stories and live true and embody love. I want beauty to rush through me and flood the earth. I want to be born again and again on the wild rivers. I want to entice and enchant and allure with mystery and grace. I want to spill secrets and share comm(union). I want to incarnate, word made flesh, wild and intoxicating. I want to stand in holy hush at a bowl of luscious blackberries in the morning sun. I want to their juicy promises of summer staining my lips. I want you to taste them, too. I want to stand here in my soulskin while my eyes flash fire. I want alchemy. I want joy.  

I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep down I just wanted to be a poem.
— Jaime Gil de Biedma

Oh, hello. This is me not being a writer. As of today I've fired the perfectionism and the pressure which builds under my writer hat until I can't even breathe. (The only difference between “writing” and “writhing” is one tiny h!) Until further notice, I'm #notwriting but spilling stories, telling truths, mining for beauty, and seeking life, magic, and wonder the only way I know how—holding my hands out for enchantment. Come along? I'll share my wanton finds with you.

Hillary Rain