Asterism

sorry.

this isn't anywhere in the realm of an update announcement, so if you don't care to continue to read this note, then I understand. If I were you, waiting this long for an update to a story a like, I would be mad, disappointed, annoyed, with me, too. 

but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry.

I wrote my first poem when I was 7 years old, and ever since then writing was the one consistent passion/hobby that I had. Every other sport or hobby I tried never seemed to hold my interest and I always ended up quitting it. Except for writing. A lot of it before I started on story writing was poetry that allowed me to release how I was feeling and express myself, and I have always had a very creative mind.

For about five years I read on Wattpad, started feeling the itch to try story writing, and that was when I began CWTHAW. I published it because I enjoyed it, but never imagined it'd get the attention it has, that others would enjoy it, too. But I think deep down there was a part of me that craved the attention and the feedback about my writing because again, it was the only hobby I had. A hobby I couldn't share with anyone before because my poetry was dark, was sad, addressed trauma and feeling like I don't belong and what was going on in the dark parts of my head. I thought writing was all I was good at, all that I could become consistent in. 

But over time, as more and more people read my stories and I kept writing, I realized the double-edged sword that an online platform can be when you put your art, yourself out there for the opinions of strangers. I never shared CWTHAW with anyone in my real life. I felt ashamed of it. I was a young teenager writing about romance she never experienced herself, I was writing also based on what I'd read on Wattpad. The stigma of being a teen romance author on Wattpad felt like too much embarrassment to handle. To this day, no one knows about my stories apart from 2 people that I kept almost every detail from, including the names of the books so they couldn't find them online. But I loved it. I loved writing, I loved reading comments and getting votes and watching the followers on my account climb. I loved the positive feedback. I couldn't imagine being someone's favourite writer, or writing someone's favourite book before. It felt really surreal and amazing, and it still does. But it really only takes one negative comment, to feel like shit. And the more attention my stories get, the more criticism they get. And that's completely fair. Every reader in the world is not going to like the same book. It's just not possible. So I can rationalize it in my head even though it still hurts to see a comment on a chapter I spent 12 hours writing that wonders why I have so many re-readers because my story has been unbearable to them so far. Or even when I get my re-readers telling the complainers that 'the story gets better,' 'just hold on' like they to only read because they were hoping it would get better, not because they enjoyed it in the first place. 

My point in all that is, internalizing the more mean and less 'constructive' criticism has definitely contributed to my lack of updates. It also contributed to me taking down Asterism and wanting to re-write it. I look back now thinking I was beating a dead horse by doing that. What I had already posted and created was good enough, was meant to be the story, and I overthought it and ruined it for myself. I like the new chapters that I made, don't get me wrong, but I look at it like this: Asterism as a quilt. I spend hours and hours and hours making this quilt. I love it. Then, I look at another quilt online and get ashamed of the quilt I have and undo all the work I did to re-sew the quilt. Then I see my squares in a different pattern somewhere else and like that pattern better, so I re-sew the quilt all over again. I keep doing this for little fleeting reasons until I realize that every time I take apart this quilt, I'm wearing down the fabric and actually making it worse. I'm also wasting my energy when I could be making new quilts with new fabrics. Instead, now I've done all that work for just one raggedy blanket when I could've had three blankets keeping me warm by now. And I realize that I miss the first quilt I made, that I'll never get back because I kept re-making it. It would've been nice to have the memory of my first quilt, because there is value in where you began and not just where you end. 

That's the mistake I made with Asterism. And it's a mistake that cost me a lot of creative energy that I'm still trying to get back. I have so many other story ideas, I have so many prequel ideas, but in the last a little over a year, I feel like I'm trying to drink from an empty vessel. And that feels like shit. Because writing used to be all I tied to my identity and now I can't even write poetry the way I used to anymore. 

Do I think I'm going to feel this way forever? No. I choose to believe I'll get my mojo back and when I do come back it will be when I know it's for real, and not just a fleeting burst of inspiration. When I come back it will be with an Asterism I have finished; even if its imperfect, I wouldn't be the story writer I am today without Marley's story. It will have an ending. Because I want to have other beginnings in other stories. I want writing to be a part of my life. It loved me for a long time, and I'm still not giving up on it. 

But this is also a time where things are so different than they used to be. COVID stripped a lot out of me, our world feels more empty and disconnected than ever and being creative is hard when your life experiences have been limited, and you feel confined to a box. I also have a lot that I've been working through long before COVID came into the picture. I need time to make my own life, to focus on myself, to actually experience more than what's in my own head. I think at some point my own head had nothing left to offer me, and I have to fill it up if I expect it to fill me. 

This isn't what any readers want to hear, but it's the truth. I have nothing to give you. My creative juices have nothing to give me, either. So I'm probably even more impatient than you. But I've tried everything under the sun including forcing things, including re-sewing the quilt a million times, but none of it worked. I think that's just my mind's way of saying I'm not supposed to write right now, that I need that time for myself and to come back when writing is easy again instead of forcing something I want to be a passion of mine, and not a chore. 

Even if this note is disappointing, it's better than silence, and you all deserve the truth because it's not fair to start something I can't finish, and not even explain why. 

Many of you have made so many of my past days brighter, and I couldn't return the favour with an update today. All I know is right now I can't write. I'm just really hoping it's a phase that passes. I've been waiting for it to. 

And I'm still waiting. Sorry.