I used to cart around my notebook and thesaurus everywhere. Characters and conversations seemingly came from no where but were immediately familiar. The more I wrote, the more ideas I had, but I’ve fallen out of the habit. Inspirations are few and are lost in a busy get to that later schedule.
An unfortunate why bother attitude has crept into my thinking. There is little incentive. I wrote for fun. I wrote to make myself feel better. It was an escape and an expulsion of feelings and thought for which there was and is no other outlet.
I was reminded that writers write for arts sake. And my immediate thought was that I’m not really a writer and I’m not an artist. I always choose the most narrow and negative scope of a word when applied to myself.
But I’ve been thinking more and more about who I want to be. And writing is always a part of it.
Today, I’ll start by putting my notebook back in my bag.