To be a writer, you must write.
Tsk, Tsk, Tsk, before you say a word, just wait a minute. Yes, I know it seems to you as though I’m simply begging the question. But hear me out. I am a writer. I know I am. But I have more works in my head than I have on paper. Are you asking why? Great ‘cuz here’s why.
For a long time after my first couple of literary disappointments, I stopped writing. I stopped putting pen to paper, words to MS-Word (I have a real cheeky grin right now, you just can’t see me). I never wanted to put my words down again. I never wanted them to be in a palpable form again because I felt too vulnerable. They were my words, my thoughts, my creation, myself. And it hurt too much to lay myself bare, just lying there in black ink waiting for someone to destroy ‘I’. So I kept ‘I’ locked up in my head. In my head where only I could see ‘I’, only I can read ‘I’, only I can love ‘I’.
Now here comes the irony. Beautiful as it was for only I to love ‘I’, ‘I’ would never be realized, fully and truly as I deserved if only I loved ‘I’.