“June, July, all through the warm months, she hibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had come and gone."
― Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's and Three Stories
I knew my spring had come. I knew that very well. I blossomed into someone I was proud to be. I wore dresses and ate ice cream straight from the tub. I smelled flowers, enjoyed picnics, ran by the beach, and felt the breeze on my hair. I knew my spring like the back of my hand. Just the same, I knew it wouldn't last as long as I wanted it to. So, even before it left, I took shelter in the cellar of myself. Thus, the hiatus.
There was so much silence in my personal life during the past months that you'd almost think I'd come back to the world with something that demands listening to. After all, whenever I take a hiatus, it's usually to work on a project in silence or take better care of other areas of my life. That's not the case. I got what I wanted, and I realized that I need more of it. The break from the pressure of writing for an audience, selling my books, getting published, or even existing was a necessity.
I used to believe I was this kind of artist who hides for a while and then comes back stronger— with better craft, more efficient marketing styles, and whatnot. But I am not that. I hibernate more than I spend my days in the sun. I sleep more than I wake. I write in silence more than I expose my words to the world's sight, and I am sick of thinking there's something wrong with it. There's no one to blame but myself.
And I forgive myself, really, for all those expectations. I forgive myself for wanting to be such a competitive businesswoman that I forget I am an artist first...and even more, a human.
I don't think anybody really cares about my hiatus. Or the fact that I took my books down for a while because I got terrified that I tied my worth around how many sales I get for a month. Or how I stopped offering services to clients indefinitely. I inform my readers about it because that's better than leaving them wondering. But I honestly don't think I am someone whose absence needs announcing. That's not a pity party. That's just the truth; I am okay with it.
I'm not always graceful about it, though. I remember beating myself up once or twice because of how dormant I had been. I felt like I was wasting time by neglecting my own craft. I was sleeping instead of coming up with better ways to market my writing. I was watching the same Modern Family episode instead of submitting to a magazine. I was eating ice cream instead of saving up to publish my latest book in paperback. I hated myself for being inconsistent. For not having the discipline. I listened to so many life gurus on YouTube that I thought I was a waste of space because I wasn't using the resources that I had.
But we are all built differently. Some people are like a candle, and some are like the sun. I am the former. I burn out too quickly without long periods of rest. More often than not, I just want to write for myself. I flicker. I melt. I breathe in sparks. I breathe out a fragrance so delicate that a voice can shatter it. Nonetheless, I bring light when I am needed. I am a friend that whispers secrets in dimly lit rooms. I am gentle. I am warm. And I leave enchanting marks even when I am gone.
I'll burn again when I want to. For now, let the flame go out.