Writers write, and it isn’t some flippant thing done in the rags of spare time. It’s identity. It’s soul.
–Kate Elliott, on Deep Genre

There are days when I feel like a writer, and days when I don’t. I know that if I want to make a dream come true and write my great novel, I have to do it, and do it lots, and do it well. There really is no excuse, even when I make one, like I never seem to be in the mood. I’ve proven to myself that I can write every day, damn the other things that need to get done, and do well in the other things even in the face of NaNo. I just don’t seem to do it well without the pressure of a deadline.
The other day, someone asked me what I really wanted to do in the future. My dad answered for me: “She’s a writer.” It made me happy, but a little sad, too. I do want to be a writer. I think I’m good enough (though I could be suffering from incompetency and unaware of it [journal article, PDF]), and I have plenty of ideas. But there’s quite a lot between the idea and a book you hold in your hands at Borders, and sometimes I don’t think I have enough to get through that. Sort of like medical school. I think I probably would make a good doctor, but medical school is not the sort of thing you play at. I see the med students walk around campus and am always a little disappointed in myself for not being good enough to join them. At least writing doesn’t cost nearly as much.
I’m very excited for November. It means that, even though I’ll be insanely busy, at the end I’ll have a wonderful (if verbose and full of continuity errors) chunk of story that I will be pleased to continue working on.
Here’s to writing. Here’s to following your dream, and finding your soul. I only hope I can.