An Almost Insatiable Desire

That's what I've been feeling for some time now about writing. The problem? I'm not writing. Why? Everytime I sit down to try and churn something out, nothing actually comes out. How can it be that the kind of want I'm feeling exists but nothing comes of it?

So, instead, I've been reading lots of different works: Emerson, Whitman, Tolle and others. I feel like there is so much out there to learn about and not near enough time to learn it all. Part of me thinks perhaps I'm not meant to be a writer. After all, I am forty-five years old now, and if it were meant to be, wouldn't I have already written something worthwhile? Another part of me says age shouldn't be a factor; lots of successful writers didn't make it until after mid-life. It comes down to persistance. Which is it?

I'm not ready to give up, which I think is a good sign. I'm going to keep chipping away at it until I either write something that is deemed worthy or another five years goes by with nothing being the end result. Maybe at that point I'll admit I'm not a writer. Maybe.

Until then, I'm going to yield to the insatiable desire I'm feeling and look at it as yielding to a beautiful, persistant lover.

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