When is a writer not a writer?
When they’re not writing? I’m currently not writing. The compulsion to bang out my plots and schemes on a daily basis has taken an unscheduled leave of absence, though the story/stories still buzz around my head, like mosquitos with dayglo prompt cards. “Write me!” they squeak, flapping their cards in my face. “You can’t just abandon what’s her name – things were just hotting up.”
I roll my eyes, and reach for the Raid.
It isn’t that I no longer want to write, I just don’t want to write right now. Perhaps weirdly, this does not bother me in the least. I will continue to dream and scheme, to plot and re-write and amend in my head, but …
Somewhere out of left field, a sneering, Devil Girl pops into my head. “You’re not a real writer anyway,” she goads, jabbing at me with her designer pitchfork, “You’re a one-trick cart horse. You’re done. That’s it. Exit stage left. No bears required.” She sneers.
I scour my mind for her adversary, the lovely Angel Girl, my go-to homie and cheerleader. Sadly, she’s not available right now, but she does text me a WhatsApp message: “Yo. Soz, I’m busy AF. Drop a msg, fam!” At a risk of discombobulation, I once again roll my eyes.
Okay, I think to myself, I’m going to have to tackle this one on my own. Drum roll, please. For me, writing is not some arduous daily chore that I’m wilfully neglecting. It’s a means of ordering and recording the myriad of scenes and plot twists that live in my head, demanding my attention. It’s a way of sharing the world of characters and experiences of the life of individuals like myself, which I rarely see in the sapphic fiction world. It’s a way that I can poke, prod and otherwise manipulate my readers’ emotions and, most importantly, it’s a joy. That said, I do need that creative spark to ignite my writers’ touchpaper before any of this can happen, and that spark seems to have gone on sabbatical.
Why am I not worried about this? I spent years – decades – putting Fin’s story together in my head before my creative volcano bubbled, fizzed, and erupted, and the glorious compulsion to get it down on paper (well, Word document) overtook me. I don’t intend to spend the coming years or decades contemplating my navel and not writing, but I’m not going down the path of Catholic self-flagellation either. What’s her name’s story may be on the back burner in my life right now, but I know that this is a temporary state of affairs. How do I know this?
Because I’m a writer, folks.
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