Just a week ago I admitted to myself that I’m not a writer, nor do I want to be one. It took me. Long time to realize that fact. I’ve fought with it for some time and finally I broke. The one thing that makes one a writer is to do just that, write. Mouthing the words and having the best of intentions doesn’t make one a literary elite.
I’ve been plotting, planning, revising a work of fiction since 2010 when I completed the first draft of the manuscript. However with all of that I did very little work. Inevitably I ended up frustrated when I even attempted because at that point I had put so much pressure on myself to accomplish my goal. My life began to unravel and one expectation after another weighed me down until I begAn to make bad decisions. After realizing that fact I knew what I had to do. I gave up and admitted defeat.
The funny thing is, I’ve probably written more in the past week than I have since 2010. So, who fucking knows. However what I do understand is I am not a writer. I’m not going to be one and I do not want to.