To call yourself a writer can be a troubling thing to one whose mind never relents. It can be a powerful sign of ones own acceptance, a belief that despite all of the doubts I may actually be able to write something of worth. If not worthy of anyone else’s time or attention, then at least worthy of my own ability to create something dear to me.
However, it can also be a leash around the neck that acts as a restraint to the flow of creativity that I feel best comes when it occurs naturally. Those ‘holy shit, that’s actually a good idea’ moments that can come at the most inconvenient of times. Thank bugger for notes!
If I am to refer to myself as a writer, I also need to remind myself every now and then that writing for the sake of writing, or progress for the sake of it, may only yield forced efforts at best or a gradual resentment to the craft at worst. I need to occasionally allow myself a breather from the voices in my head that demand that I give everything up to sit down and write, write, write, write, WRITE, WRITE!!
Sometimes it is okay to take some time and recharge the batteries. Rather than try to figure out who I am and what to do about every spare moment I get, sometimes it is alright to just stop and be still.
Forged From Reverie.