A multi-year hiatus - that's what I've taken from blog writing. And, even now, I'm not certain I'm back. At one point I considered myself to be a writer. Now I don't know. Is a writer something you stop being if you're not capturing words outside of your head? I know that I narrate constantly inside my head, that I tell myself stories, and that those stories color and create my world. But don't we all? Maybe some of us just more colorfully than others?
For many years, I felt driven to write words on paper. Then electronically. Then, something changed. I don't know what.
I read a statistic recently that was something like (but almost definitely not exactly) "78% of Americans believe that they will write a novel before they die." That says something about someone, doesn't it? Is it about Americans, or about humans? The world we live in today certainly creates and fosters the belief that anyone can become "realized" at any point. Moreover, it cultivates the obsessive documentation of one's "self" - one's opinions, one's daily outfit, one's every meal. Perhaps that logically leads to a belief that every being is a fountain of content that merits documentation - and that there is an appetite for it? Instant fame is a tantalizing possibility to anyone that has an online presence. We are all driven, consciously or not, to immortalize ourselves.
I am at a crossroads in life and in an ideal position to contemplate today what I am and am not. More importantly, I have a supported opportunity, in terms of time and resources, to explore and pursue what I want to be. At nearly 40, I vacillate between feeling too old and feeling that I am only just ready to do this.
Am I a writer? I don't know. What I do know is that I have a voice, as we all do, and that my voice may perhaps be loudest in writing.
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