What makes me a writer? If I can’t clear my mind for long enough to develop a character, am I still a writer? If story ideas flood my brain and then slowly slip away, before I can find a pen and paper, am I still a writer? If I go for weeks without writing a single thing that’s worth a damn, am I still a writer?
When I was young, they called me gifted. I knew, even then, that a story well woven had to be coaxed from its shell, lured softly and seductively to your side, wrestled roughly into submission, sometimes.
But look at me now. Head full of half baked plot lines and cliches. Am I still a writer? What ever happened to the magic that used to drop from my pen? What has become of the honey dipped words that once flowed so freely? If I’m too afraid to fail, does that make me a writer also?
Perhaps it is the one thing we all have in common.