Sometimes I wonder if I’m a writer at all.
There’s no apparent end to my list of story ideas, plots, character information, dialogue snippets… you name it, I have it written down in my notes. But I’m not writing. It’s true, I threw together a couple quick stories this month but… do they really count? I didn’t actively decide to write them, didn’t feel connected to the characters, and have no plans to revise. I’m content with their existence and nothing more. They’re already filed away and until I started writing this week’s post, I forgot I wrote them.
So the question is… am I a writer?
For the sake of my own sanity, I’m going with yes. If I’m not a writer, what am I doing on this planet? I breathe words. They’re all I think about. It’s not an addiction, it’s built into my DNA. Words are my core; my very existence is reliant on the self-expression of my thoughts in words. I am words. Why, then, won’t they come out? I feel like Rachel in that episode of Friends when she was a thousand months pregnant and screaming at her baby to “get out”.
Come on, you can do it. I believe in you. Write. Unleash this stream of stories and characters and worlds all precariously crammed into my head. Come out. OUT.
On the other hand, one day I really will break this blockage. I’ll smash it to smithereens and there will be nothing stopping me. I fear that day. I struggle to sleep now, how much harder will it be when I can’t write fast enough because there are so many things to say? I’m anxious just thinking about it and the more I think about writing, the more ideas I generate. More ideas means more frustration because come on, GET OUT!
I’ve already started plotting.
Fiction projects: 2
Fiction words this week: three 4x6 index cards and half a stack of post-its. I don’t know how to count that.
About the Author: Theresa Green is the co-founder of The Writer's Workout and a crime fiction writer.