The only thing a writer must do, to legitimately call herself a writer, is write. Period. While it is true that the world is full of writers who will never be published, you will never find a published author who doesn’t write. (For simplicity’s sake I’m ignoring the existence of ghost writers and plagiarists.)
Writers write. This simple phrase reverberates in my mind over and over, getting louder and louder, the longer I go without writing. While it’s easy to dismiss a lapse (it was Thanksgiving, I crashed my car, I got the stomach flu and wound up in the hospital) the simple fact is, if you’re not writing, you’re not a writer.
All of this is my way of confessing that, despite the best of excuses, I haven’t been a writer since last Tuesday. It’s gnawing at me, like a hungry cat that has decided to chew on my sweater for sustenance.
So I declare this morning a belated day of thanks dedicated to this blog and my readers. If not for my commitment to posting a new entry every Monday, I might continue to avoid sitting at the keyboard, but even the small feat of spilling a few hundred words onto the page gets the fingers nimble and the brain ready to work once more.
Here I go…