I'm finding it so hard to write lately unless I'm under the influence of some intoxicant, be it love, booze or extreme emotion. I've been complimented so much lately for my writing and have indeed been labeled as a writer by some. I guess it's that classic question of identity. Are you deserving of a title if you don't do whatever it is that produces that title within you?
Oftentimes I merely write in my head in the wee hours of the morning or as I walk to class and that's the farthest it has ever gone. Indeed, I carry a thousand unfinished stories within me. These stories weigh me down and often make me feel like I cannot proclaim to be a writer, merely a thinker.
Perhaps that is all that I am, a thinker and a feeler. There's no job title there. A dear friend called me a Literary Philosopher the other day and maybe that is the distinction I should profess, the title at the helm of my resume.
I don't know, I know that this post has taken me 20 minutes to write. The words don't come as easily as the ideas do and I know there is a secret hidden in that statement. A secret I crave to unlock so as to release the burden of a thousand characters waiting for their happy ending when I can only conceive of their beginning.
I was once told that I carry the mantle of Guinevere with me from her life to mine. It may be true. Is there any other woman in history who perpetually conceived and did not produce?
Well, there is Anne Boleyn, but let's not get into men cutting off their wifes head to punish her lack of production.
