I wonder: If I cry out “Brontë! Brontë! Brontë!” will I manage to summon one of those literary sisters from the grave to help me banish the writing demons Doubt, Procrastination, Fear and Time Waster from my brain where they, and all their evil friends, seem to have taken residence?
The call to write has grown in strength. And… I write, but I don’t particularly know what to do with it other than my typical scribbling here and there and in that journal or on that receipt or napkin. I have no direction. I have no grand inspiration. Simply put...
"I write because I cannot NOT write." ~Charlotte Brontë
I don’t know if anything I write actually has readability. More importantly, were I to successfully banish my writing demons and produce a more substantial piece(s) of work; do I possess the creativity to capture the attention of more than the obligatory family readings? That question is rhetorical, by the way.
I stopped for a while. Writing, that is. Reading, too, if you must know. I wanted to do both but somehow (Not completely unexplainably... It would take a novel... Bloody irony.) those activities came to a screeching halt. Now they are back with a vengeance and, in all honesty, as a working single mother, I worry. I have a highly addictive personality. I know this. Can I possibly afford to be consumed right now? Can I afford not to be?
"You can write nothing of value unless you give yourself wholly to the theme -- and when you so give yourself -- you lose appetite and sleep -- it cannot be helped --" ~Charlotte Brontë