I have not been writing.
I think about writing all the time. I plan outlines and schedules, every week, then discard them in favor of errands and yard work. I compose poem fragments in my head as I fold laundry, then move on to my next task without pausing to write them down.
For most of the last two years, I have been a writer who does not write.
I can’t claim writer’s block, because the words are there. In fact, I’m somewhat surprised by the words’ persistence. I’ve been ignoring them for a very, very long time, and they continue to clamor for attention. It’s like being under siege.
Over this past month, the words began to win. I looked at the HRW conference website two or three times. I read through the schedule. I printed the registration form.
I decided to submit a short story and poem to the free contests and spent a few days revising my entries. Then I decided to submit the first ten pages of my stalled work-in-progress for the optional critique and spent a few more days revising. Before I knew it, I had fallen into a routine. I was writing again. Every day.
My registration packet is in the mail, and I’m still writing. Every day. I don’t know if my renewed focus will last, because I went through a similar surge last year after returning home from the conference. But, for now, the words have won. I am a writer who writes.