I used to write too.
Now I only wait. For it all to slow down. To get easier. For inspiration. To remember who I want to be. I’m not sure if I can keep it up. Once I admit it’s over, then it’s over. So I pretend it’s not. I still call myself a writer. I continue to write notes, ideas that I tell myself will eventually become something more. An offender and a victim of delusion. I look at the others, everyone barely holding on. Stagnant satisfaction non-existent, so do not assume it is an option, but do not let yourself be satisfied otherwise, until you are. Know your surroundings. Understand the environment and how you relate to it. Why did I used to write? To become a writer, probably not. Because I had to, more likely. For attention, unfortunately. To prove to myself that I am not stupid, definitely. To surprise others, maybe the most. I fade easily, forgetting often how I need to fight against it. I don’t want to be a writer. I want to write.

February 12 – Judy Blume gets my self-identification as a writer
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