For years I've been telling myself that I'm a writer, but to be one you actually have to WRITE and I just haven't been doing that. I journal, I write about writing, I read about writing, I organize programs to help other people write - but sitting down and creating new, original work is something I just haven't been able to make myself do.
It's not for lack of ideas. I have at least five projects going right now, two of which I'm determined to finish before the end of the year - and they are both book length.
But each time I sit down to write, I think about all the other commitments I've made that need my time and attention and all have deadlines that haunt me like ghouls!
I know better. I know a writer needs to set a time and keep that sacred like you would a doctor's appointment. But I have trouble settling my mind when other obligations are weighing on me. And I'm in big-time procrastination mode!
Finally, on Tuesday I just decided to give it all up. Who would notice? I'm just a middle-aged (teetering on the edge of old) woman scribbling away at things that nobody is likely to read or care about. I'm tired of being persistent - I've had 40 years of persistence!
Then, yesterday I got a notion about an essay I'm working on for a larger collection. This morning I think I'm going to sit on the deck looking out over my quiet back yard, and work it all out.
I suppose in the end it doesn't matter if what I write never sees the light of day. I do it for me. I do it to quiet a too busy mind. I do it for when I'm gone - to cry out into the darkness that I was here and this is the way I thought.
And all of that is enough. For now.
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