The other day, a friend asked me:
“What is your writing doing?”
I felt uncomfortable with his question. I tend to want to impress people, and in that moment, I stumbled. I quickly said, “I’m in the midst of translating my book,” and that seemed to satisfy him. But it also left me thinking about a question I’ve been carrying for two years:
Do I really want to keep writing?
I worked on my book for so long—every day, writing until it was finally done. I put it out into the world, and then I stopped. There’s this quiet pressure to keep sharing, keep posting, keep writing more.
But when I compare myself to others—louder, flashier, more confident voices—I ask: Why add more noise?
Lately, nothing comes from my heart. There’s no sparkle, no motivation.
It feels like being still. Maybe even a little empty.
I don’t know what to say anymore—or better yet, I don’t know who I’m saying it for.
And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe it’s enough to pause. To listen. To wait until I feel the need to write again—not because I have to, but because something inside me wants to speak.
Until then, I’m allowing myself to rest in the space between words.