I always have been.
But recently, I find it more and more difficult to do the actual physical act of writing. Holding a pen can cause cramping, typing causes a different pain, but neither is that bad. Five years ago, those little aches and pains wouldn't have stopped me. Three years ago, there would have been no problem with the problems.
Some days just sitting at the desk is fatiguing.
I haven't blogged.
I haven't written letters. (Something I love to do; always have, always will. Or so I once thought.)
Signing Christmas cards and addressing envelopes fatigued me beyond reason.
But I write in my mind at all times.
I reword and rework the structure of sentences I am considering writing.
I reorganize the order of paragraphs in planned blog entries for maximum (or minimal) impact.
I choose words that describe specifically.
Active verbs, and passive exposition for effect.
It's just so hard to sit and do the actual work!
Have I gotten lazy?
Do I just not care?
Am I more ill (weak, tired, senile, dying) than I know?
I have always dealt with the grievances and annoyances and, yes, the joys, of an overwhelming life by putting it into words. By putting it into words and sharing those words with my world at large.
The words are still there, and most of my mental energy goes into the composition and selection of the words, but it seems, somehow, to stop there. The words are in my head, and occasionally they will come out my mouth. (Not often)
But that is as far as it goes.
So can I still call myself a writer? Even though I do not actually write?
I have become a composer of unsung, unshared thoughts, feelings, ideas, and ideals.
No longer a mother to children.
No longer a wife.
No longer an eager energetic all-hours employee.
No longer a writer?
What and who then am I, and how do I find myself again, with all my identities in shreds?
But recently, I find it more and more difficult to do the actual physical act of writing. Holding a pen can cause cramping, typing causes a different pain, but neither is that bad. Five years ago, those little aches and pains wouldn't have stopped me. Three years ago, there would have been no problem with the problems.
Some days just sitting at the desk is fatiguing.
I haven't blogged.
I haven't written letters. (Something I love to do; always have, always will. Or so I once thought.)
Signing Christmas cards and addressing envelopes fatigued me beyond reason.
But I write in my mind at all times.
I reword and rework the structure of sentences I am considering writing.
I reorganize the order of paragraphs in planned blog entries for maximum (or minimal) impact.
I choose words that describe specifically.
Active verbs, and passive exposition for effect.
It's just so hard to sit and do the actual work!
Have I gotten lazy?
Do I just not care?
Am I more ill (weak, tired, senile, dying) than I know?
I have always dealt with the grievances and annoyances and, yes, the joys, of an overwhelming life by putting it into words. By putting it into words and sharing those words with my world at large.
The words are still there, and most of my mental energy goes into the composition and selection of the words, but it seems, somehow, to stop there. The words are in my head, and occasionally they will come out my mouth. (Not often)
But that is as far as it goes.
So can I still call myself a writer? Even though I do not actually write?
I have become a composer of unsung, unshared thoughts, feelings, ideas, and ideals.
No longer a mother to children.
No longer a wife.
No longer an eager energetic all-hours employee.
No longer a writer?
What and who then am I, and how do I find myself again, with all my identities in shreds?
