A lot of the time I don’t feel like I’m a writer. I hardly ever write, and when I do it’s almost always to absolutely no end other than to appease my mind, to quiet my brains thoughts when I’m trying to get some shut-eye.
Then again, I do think that a writer is a thought transcriber and a thought organiser (or editor, I guess.) So maybe I am a writer.
When something happens I’m generally trying my best to think of the best medium through which to record the moment, and hurriedly trying to visualize paragraphs, making deals with myself to fruitlessly guarantee that I won’t forget some beautiful line of words that I felt summed up a moment poignantly and perfectly – an effort which I’ll admit usually ends up being entirely in vain.
When I think about whether I’m a writer I usually end up conceding that I’m just another fan of pretty paper artifacts and stringing big words together. Perhaps that’s all a writer is anyway.
I do want to be published, but only for the glory of it. Not because I actually think that anything I write is any good. The vast majority of my work are first drafts or convoluted idea blurbs or worse – confessional mind dumps.
And most, if not all of it is half finished.
I feel like this often too … I’m hoping it’s a perfectly natural way for a true ‘writer’ to feel … to always be questioning our ability.