My minor is in creative writing.
Seriously. I enjoyed my writing classes so much in my undergrad days (plus my professor reminded me of an American version of Sean Connery; we called him the silver fox) that I took enough classes to constitute a minor within my degree.
Sometimes that sort of blows me away.
Because what have I done with it?
Sure, I like to write. Once I even spnsored a writing club at school.
I love to read, and I know good writing from bad. But what was the point of writing so much back then if I was never going to really be a "writer"? This is a question that I don't really let myself think about much. It's one I've never been brave enough to ask aloud.
I've attemped getting poems published. And I realize rejection is part of the whole deal when you're a "writer," but you know what? It still sucks getting rejected.
The closest I've come to being "successful" as a writer was 15 years ago when I was still in undergrad (Holy Crap!!! Has it really been THAT long???) and I read a short story at a student invitation reading and got it published in the little university magazine. That's about it. That's the list of my writing accomplishments.
How has something that was once so important to me gone by the wayside?
How has life intervened so much that I've never made more than a few measly attempts to publish anything? (And what would it mean if I did get published anyway?
Nothing really, I guess.)
Because I don't really define myself as a writer.
I'm a wife, mom, sister, daughter, teacher, friend. I'm also a reader and a runner. But a writer? Not really. At least -- not yet.
I once said that I don't really feel like writing when I don't have any drama in my life to lament / write about. This feels true a lot. Which is probablywhy my writing of late (here in this blog) is mostly about my current drama of not enough sleep...
So if I was into making New Year's resolutions - I would resolve to write more. To make time for something that used to mean a lot to me, and to make it important again.