I need to figure out why I want to write. This has been eating at me for decades, but I don’t write, not really. A few words here and there, an occasional poem, but I seldom finish anything. This is ridiculous, because my life is back to just me. Me, myself and I, and no one else. 

I think about that half-finished orange afghan left hanging in the closet when we moved out of the house on Second Street. My writing has been like that, half-finished and useless, hanging in my mental closet, of no use to me or anyone else. Why don’t I fix this? 

Maybe I can’t write. Maybe that’s it, but then again: I think not. I’m too intelligent to avoid something for fear of failure, or am I? As long as I say I want to be a writer, but don’t actually write, I have can call that dream mine. On the other hand, if I write the best I can, if I pour my soul onto the page to no avail, if my writing is never seen as worthy of publication in any mainstream genre, then the dream must end.

I think my life would be simpler if I never had any desire to write anything, if I were merely content to read. There are people out there who are like that, millions in fact, but I can’t imagine being among them. I can’t imagine not wanting to write, not wishing to create something that didn’t previously exist with words which, while not uniquely mine, are uniquely arranged. I am a writer.

 I must believe that. I must believe that.

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