And that would be, Am I Really A Writer?
I have a lot of excuses *not* to be. I wasn’t encouraged as a youngster (in fact, I was strongly – and strangely – discouraged).
I was too sheltered to seek out the truth (even now I have a hard time seeing the big picture).
My juvenenalia was tossed out when I was 12 as punishment for hiding a bad report card (“daydreaming” was blamed for my poor grades…see my first excuse, above).
I had a vicious critic in my eldest brother, the one with Asperger’s, for whom NOTHING was good enough, and everything was laughed at for being “stupid” (no one was allowed to be smarter than him. It was all he had).
I spent *years* not writing…not exercising that muscle. It still feels flabby, despite years of keeping a daily diary and “online journaling”/blogging (intermittently) for the past 12 (!) years.
I still fear the criticism (firmly ingrained in my inner voice) and feel the Imposter Syndrome when I sit down to write. It freezes me at times (most of the time, actually). I need kind editors. I have become the sort of writer I hated working with when I was an editor at a publishing house, the needy kind who wanted constant encouragement, to whom every word was a precious baby that they couldn’t DREAM of cutting out of their beloved manuscript.
But for me, I primarily need to WRITE. To sit down on a daily basis and get the fiction in my head out on paper. I need solitude, which will be coming soon, when all my children are in school. In the meantime, I will keep checking in here and sharing my thoughts on writing as I live them.
And there is my final fear: that I’m not really a writer, because I don’t have The Fire to write. Maybe I have to write to find the fire. Maybe The Fire is just a myth?