Writers Write, and So Am I

My first NaNoWriMo was an epic failure. I flamed out after a week, not even reaching 5000 words. So, what happened? I was going to catalog my excuses, but why try to justify it? The simple truth is that my passion wasn’t greater than my circumstances. And while it’s true that the month took an unexpected turn that demanded a lot of my time, in the time I had left, I chose not to write. I watched TV instead, letting other people’s stories fill my head, listening to their characters ramble. After that first week, I chose passive consumption over active creation. Either state can take me out of myself. I opted for the easy one. No excuses.

So, what now? Last night, when I decided that I’d write and post something this morning, I thought that a good idea might be to pick up where I left off last summer and finish out the year with one last poetry form. I haven’t decided yet whether to keep going with the rimas dissolutas or to choose a new form. I’m leaning toward the former, since I wrote so little in June. Can I go back to writing for my own amusement? Will it feel good to be creating something every day? Have I come far enough on this journey to accept that I am a writer, whether or not anyone ever reads a word, or offers support, or pretends to care? I have written. I do write. I am writing. I am.

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