These days, I can typically track how busy I’ve been by how many days go by between each of my blog posts. Since I started doing this, I’ve missed days at least twice (if not more).
This is the longest it’s been between postings. But it wasn’t totally because I was busy.
The truth is, I’ve been dejected. In September, I wrote two pieces for submission — one fiction, one creative non-fiction. Neither one made the cut.
Since the start of the year, I’ve been questioning my ability as a writer. And suddenly, hit with these two rejections, one of which I didn’t even really care about getting into, my entire professional identity came into question.
Who was I, if not a writer? And could I even call myself a writer if I wasn’t getting published enough?
Even as I hit milestones in the other work I do, I wonder why this hasn’t been happening for my writing.
What if this was as far as I could go? The thought frightened me.
So I worked on other things. I read books, played games. The blank screen suddenly seemed like the scariest thing in the world.
But then I remembered something I’d read years ago: the answer to the question “when can I call myself a writer”.
When you write.
So I keep writing.