I like to be busy, but productively busy. I particularly like to be busy writing, whether it's reviews or my own creative work. It's not happening, however, and that familiar feeling of frustration is creeping back.
Maybe I am not meant to be a writer. Maybe I like the idea of being a writer more than the actual writing work. Maybe I do not have the talent, or the motivation. The latter is a problem. I'm not ambitious enough to work steadily everyday and submit pieces on a regular basis. This worries me, because it's not what I want.
I want to write and to have what I write published. But I've had this desire for so long that I wonder if I am happy just to have the desire without the fulfillment. As if life consists of this single desire, without the need to fulfill it completely.
I could simply be lazy.
Of course, I have written vast numbers of reviews, and have a 50k manuscript sitting in my laptop (and on paper somewhere), as well as 30k of memoir fragments, and a 30k (terrible) novella that was written for my MA. So I cannot say that I have nothing to show for all this desire.
I need to turn the wistful desire into words, and send them away. What's stopping this?
