You are what you do, so what do I want to be?

Source: Imgur, Parts Unknown

I like to think that I am a decent writer. I am often complimented on my creativity, my humor, even, occasionally, my erotisicism. [Oh myyyy.] Most compliments of this nature are met with scoffing, because I never really write anything. How can it be that someone who has dreamed of being a writer their entire life, who has such a love of words and affinity for editing, has never just sat down and produced some body of work?

I have no idea! I also have no ideas of the creative variety. I think of so many things I would love to write about: Paleo potato salad, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, my cats judgmental expressions, mascara, World of Warcraft. I am sure there is at least one other crazy spider-lashed cat lady who likes potato salad and WoW who would be pleased to read a jumble of thoughts on those items. I feel very disordered; a dabbler in all the things, a master of none. What level of quality in writing could such a person hope to spit out on the page?

Here is a list of things that I want to write:

A lesbian romance novel (a romance novel, not erotica, not literature, just a fun read about falling in love)
A webcomic about cats
A memoir (I would have to wait till everyone I know is dead)
Essays about being A Good Person (as defined by yours truly)
A humorous blog that people like to read while they poo or have their morning coffee

Instead, I write none of these things. I spend a lot of time writing to argue on the WoW forums, and I spend a lot of time writing fluffy marketing copy as a source of income. I cannot remember, though, the last time I wrote something for myself, simply out of wanting to write. Of needing to feel the words slip out of my brain, through my fingers, into the keys or the pen, and onto the page like the magical things that they are. I can’t remember the last time I wrote without expecting payment for it or as part of an online conversation, a tiny cog in a wheel.

Until today. I wrote this blog post for myself, as a reminder of what I want to do with my life, and proof to turn to, in my dark times, that words will still flow at my command.


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