Not WritingFor the last few days, weeks, months even, I have been struggling with the question of why I’m not writing.

I don’t have writer’s block. The truth is I have short stories, a novel, a couple of memoir pieces, some essays and even an idea for a play yammering at me to be written. So there are no blank pages staring at me waiting for inspiration.

And I find the act of writing enjoyable and, dare I say it, even easy. Easy the way a natural athlete runs or hits balls or swims. When I put pen to paper (or more precisely fingers to keyboard), words flow. They aren’t perfect but they get the job done. And I enjoy the process of revision and retooling.

I used to think it was fear of criticism. But I take classes and workshop those few pieces I have actually gotten past the cerebral stage. Even if my ego cringes a bit at the feedback, I find hearing how I can improve inspiring rather than discouraging.

So the questions remains: Why don’t I write? I may never know. But I do know what I can do about it.

I can write.

I can write posts, stories, exercises whatever it takes until whatever part of me that is playing the spoiler gives up and goes home.

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After all one good thing about being your own worst enemy is that at least you know your adversary’s best moves.