This year has started with a great burst of energy. I’m trying to keep momentum going as I strive to inhabit the life I want to lead – the life of a writer. I’m a bit afraid that if I pause for more than a few minutes, I’ll lose all impetus. So I just keep going.
It strikes me that while it is quite difficult to imagine oneself as a writer, it is even more difficult to describe oneself as a writer. Do I deserve the name? Am I sufficiently writerly in my habits? Do I produce enough words on the page? How much do I need in the way of publications before I can call myself a writer? As for income! That would be a very high criterion indeed.
But I know that I am never more content than when I am lost in writing, when the words dash along onto the screen, all un-edited and mis-typed, and *my* characters face the lives they’ve been dealt. They *live* almost as if they are alive …
Maybe that’s all we can do. In this year of yes, let me live as if I am a writer.