I used to call myself a writer.
I am a note taker, a list maker, but I no longer write. It has been months since I’ve written anything I really think and I believe the reason I give myself is that it is down to work, priorities and lifestyle. However, if I’m honest, it think it goes much deeper than that. I’ve been blogging for ages, trying to keep my creativity going, forcing myself to think about writing, but a writer must do more than think. A writer must write, and every day and honestly. I being to consider what it is that separates those who write and publish and share and those who don’t.
In fact, in a fit of disillusionment, fear and frustration, I destroyed all of my journals. Years and years of thoughts and experiences, unfinished stories, memories and ideas, gone forever. Just like that, on a whim. A part of me regrets that move, but another part wonders what I have to gain by keeping then, locked away in my study, unread for, in some cases, over ten years. It’s a shame that some of the memories are gone, but there is an element of relief; the notion that I can start again with a clean slate.
So, here I am, honest at last that I have not been a writer for some years, but anxious to begin again. It’s never too late (until you’re dead). I have a new story I’m working on, and I hope it’s my bravest yet, because I intend for it to reflect some honesty. If you pay close attention to a piece of writing, you can put yourself in the frame of mind of the writer. That’s quite something when you think about it.
Wish me luck. I have much to make up for.