I am a writer.  At least, that’s one of the titles firmly affixed to that idea I have in my head about who I really am.  It’s right up near the top, under the easy ones like “wife” and “sister” which I never have to question.

Writers write.

That used to make me feel better.  Back when I had taken a year off from school and any spare time was dedicated towards finishing my second novel.  It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a degree that called me a writer.  It didn’t matter that I didn’t have publishers banging down my doors to get the writing out to the world.  I wrote.  I was a writer.

Writers write, but studying for the bar exam has to come first.

Writers write, but I have to do laundry first or my husband won’t have anything to wear.

Writers write, but tomorrow will have more free time than today, so I should wait.

Writers write, but no one can write when it’s 62 degrees.  It’s an odd temperature.

There is always an excuse.  But excuses should be for the things I don’t want to do, that never get done.  My excuses should get me out of doing laundry, and out of studying for the bar (wishful thinking), they shouldn’t be getting me out of the things that I love to do!  The things that are fundamental to who I am!

But somewhere along the line writing took a backseat to school and housekeeping and, yes, sadly even Facebook.  I make time for all of those.  Those get done.  My writing… well, lately it’s been getting neglected.

I would like to argue to myself that I just don’t have the time.  But if that were true, and my priorities were straight, than the writing would come in before Facebook.  I don’t wear “Facebook stalker” as a defining part of what makes me who I am.  So then I try to argue that I don’t have long enough chunks of time.  That lets me off the hook with the Facebook thing.  But it probably doesn’t let me off the hook for watching TV or shopping or even reading, when my writing  has been abandoned.

I’ve went back and forth about not blogging, and making fiction my main priority.  But that might just take away the only place that I actually do write on a regular basis.  I’m not sure the blog is really what is standing in the way.  I think I’m what is in the way.  My time management.  My lack of priorities.  My fear.  My ideas about what being grown up and responsible is supposed to look like.

If “novel writer” was a job that you could apply to on a website, and it came with it’s own distinct workday and the promise of a constant paycheck and benefits, the world would be a more fabulous place.  But it doesn’t.  At least not when you’re starting out. So I have to make the time, create the habit, and just get back to it.  I need to get inspired and get to work.

Writers writer. Period. No excuses.