I’m struggling to find purpose in writing. I’m struggling to do that in other areas of my life as well, but it feels the most acute in writing currently. Achieving a certain level of material and financial comfort pushes the search for creative meaning to the front of my mind.

After years of thinking, rethinking, overthinking, and chipping away at the question, I broke through my issues with gender identity, sexual identity, body image, money, and employment. I’ve done a lot of independent reading on political and sociological topics, dedicated myself to learning and reading as much as I can, and just generally pushed to be a better person all around. But finding that animating spark, that bit of inspiration that would enliven my artistic life still feels elusive.

I got into writing because none of the other artistic outlets were doing it for me anymore, and maybe it was high time I got back to the thing that made me want to be creative in the first place. Characters and ideas that had been gathering dust in notebooks for years–anywhere from one year to over a decade by mid-2016–were suddenly given new purpose, new life, placed in a new context that allowed me to be playful, imaginative, and introspective at the same time.

That fire has cooled over the past 18 or so months, and as I’ve settled into writing as routine rather than novelty, getting to that animating spark is becoming more important.

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