I tell people I enjoy writing fiction. That’s a blatant lie on a couple levels.
First of all, It would be more correct to say, “I enjoy having written.” Any real writer will tell you that the act of writing is torture. A writer writes because he is driven to, not because he wants to or because he enjoys it.
Second, I’ve managed to avoid writing anything of significance for over a year now. Can I really call myself a writer? Writing marketing content for my employer doesn’t count. There’s writing and then there’s writing. I think you get it.
But the call has always been there. I may do a decent job of ignoring it, covering it up, or distracting myself from the inner voice that screams at me to bleed my subconscious onto the page, but It’s always there.
Sometimes it threatens me. “This story that you so want to get out will never be completed at the rate you’re going. Are you even capable of pulling this off? It’s about time you wrote SOMETHING if you’re going to call yourself a writer.
Sometimes the call is gentler. The smell of fresh coffee. The snow falling outside. The live streamed Yule log on YouTube. All coaxing me back into my craft. My profession. My possession.