So you may have noticed that I have not updated this blog in over a month. My last actual post was about Thanksgiving. I guess you could say I’ve been having an existential crisis.
I am a writer. That’s always how I’ve identified, to myself and to other people. I didn’t show anyone my writing for the longest time, but even when I didn’t, I was still the one who read books and wrote stories. I’m an only child, and storytelling was how I made up for it. I started young: never-ending adventures for my Barbies and elaborate backstories for my teddy bears. I have distinct memories of using all my toys to reenact The Inn of the Sixth Happiness (sans the dashing soldier because dadgummit I don’t need no man).
I was about eleven when I first started writing my stories down. They were never for anyone else though. Last year, I spent so much time on that Dan-in-Japan fanfic–my therapy writing for when I was feeling homesick. This year, I wrote a fanfic about my writing workshop group.
Or rather, in 2014 and in 2015. It’s a new year, isn’t it? New year, new me. Promises that can’t be kept, resolutions you make just to pretend you’ll be different. It’s the time of year when people vow to follow their dreams. And maybe they do for a few weeks, but it never lasts. That realization was just the cap to this whole identity shift.
In 2016, I may decide not to finish my book. These last couple months, I’ve been agonizing over how it ends. Even after leaving it alone for months, I’m still in too deep to find my way out. And that might be okay. Over Christmas, I realized that writing is simply how I process. “I am a writer” does not necessarily equate “I must achieve publication.” At this point, I’m just done.