A fellow writer once asked me what my passions were ‘apart from writing’. As I often do, I blurted out the first thing that came into my head, which was: ‘Writing isn’t my passion!’ Another writer (we were on a course together – I don’t have that many writer friends) nodded in agreement. ‘But…but…’ the first guy said, clearly astounded. ‘If it’s not your passion, what is it then?’
I thought for a minute, took a few sips of beer (come on! You can’t be surprised this conversation took place in a bar.) Eventually I answered: ‘It’s more a compulsion. I can’t not write.’ Again, writer no 2 nodded his head.
I make no claims to greatness in my writing, and I should, in all honesty, merely say I write rather than I am a writer. If I was a writer, by now I would have dragged out the manuscript I completed on that course (in 2017) and finished editing it so I could send it out into the world. In my defence, I hate editing and I’d rather write than edit any day. Well, most days. Having said I can’t not write, today I find myself lost for words. Pause for cheering from my husband, until he realises I mean only in the written form.
I’ve managed forty-one days (at least, as I was writing before then, just nothing anyone would want to read) and I can usually write about anything. As you may have noticed. Your average writer doesn’t sit around, pen in hand, waiting for inspiration, or the muse, to find them. To write is to dig, with your bare hands if necessary, to find the treasure of words, to string them into sentences. But today there is nothing. A whole 317 words of nothing. I shall try and do better tomorrow, and I’m sure you’ll be glad. If you’re still with me by then.