Eclectic World, Eclectic Mind

For 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.

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