Writer is not my profession. Hell, until a few weeks ago it wasn’t even my hobby, but for some reason I find myself sitting in front of a computer typing out whatever is going to come out of my fingertips next. Most of the time I have no idea what I am going to say…write?…until it’s on the screen. No, I do not think like a writer. I think like a mother.
While I am jotting down these thoughts I am simultaneously being bombarded with thoughts about Cheetoh crumbs that need to be vacuumed up and the fact that the Netflix logo has been sitting on the screen for an hour now. I should probably turn it off. There’s also this to clean up and that to throw away and did I get everything I needed to from the store? Probably not.
All I want to do is take a nap and yet I can’t tear myself away from this blog. I am not a writer, but I can’t stop writing. How does that work? Maybe my five day absence built up a dam in my mind and now the words are rushing out of my fingers at a rate to fast to contain…
Who decides, anyway? Does someone randomly saying, “hey, you’re a really good writer” instantly bump you to “writer” status? Or is it something you have to claim for yourself? Hm.
I don’t want to be a writer. I would much rather be a sharer of experiences both common and unique. Mostly common, but unique to me.
Ay, I need to move. My ass is falling asleep.