It took me a few decades and a come-to-Jesus moment to call myself a writer. I've talked about it ad nauseum on this blog, and you can dig into those archives if you want.
But lately, the writing has been mighty scarce. And I've found myself wondering, what do you call a writer who doesn't write? Does that mean I'm not a writer anymore?
Sort of like, if a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it, does it still make a noise?
I'm not making much noise, at least not publicly. I have a journal that I write in every few days. But that's more spiritual reflection/conversation stuff, not sit-down-and-really-write stuff.
A Facebook friend and former classmate of mine announced today that one of her stories was accepted for publication, and I was equal parts happy for her and jealous of her. I've also talked about this before, the jealousy of others' writing success. And in the middle of those green feelings, I said to myself, "Well, she's been writing. You haven't. How can you get published if you don't write?"
I don't know what to think about any of it. I'm pretty sure I still love writing, still need it, still crave it. But I'm just as sure that this time of my life doesn't permit much writing. The art has to wait, and all that.
I'm not sad about it (perhaps I should be?), just a bit bewildered over what it all means.