I have been writing for a very long time. Though I have yet to get anything published, creating stories has always been something I’ve been very passionate about. I never believed there’d be anything that would ever diminish that.
This past year has proved me wrong. I’d been writing a fan fiction story since 2014 set in the world of Resident Evil, a series of survival horror video games revolving around mutagenic viruses created by a corrupt pharmaceutical company. My particular story had the character of Claire Redfield unknowingly infected with a virus that imbued her with rapid healing, which resulted in her being abducted and held in an underground facility by uber-villain Albert Wesker.
I never expected real life to mirror the story I was writing, but it has. I find myself, like Claire, living in a world where I have little contact with friends or acquaintances; the freedom to partake in things I used to love is a thing of the past thanks to a devastating virus. Even worse, I feel the year of feeling like a prisoner and being at the mercy of a madman has gradually chipped away at me.
I stopped writing at some point during this past year. I have blamed it on the inability to go to my usual haunts that inspired me. But I think I’ve recently come to believe there’s more to it than that–it’s because I lost sight of who I was.
I very recently realized that I haven’t changed just because the world has. My fire, my passion for writing, is still there; I just needed to rediscover it. I am still that person with a very vivid imagination who loves creating works of fiction or writing video game blogs. And it is something I need to wholeheartedly dive back into.
And if I ever lose sight of that again or falter, then at least I have this article as a reminder.