really, I am . . . I am constantly blogging inside my head . . . in traffic, in the shower, as I go about my day, while I’m watching Little House on the Prairie (not kidding about that last one!) . . .
but somehow, these entries don’t make it to the screen, or they are doomed to live out their days as a draft, waiting to be perfected before I hit “publish”.
Blogging was supposed to help me with my chronic lack of discipline when it comes to writing, and it worked for a while, but then . . . I don’t know. Life happened. I’ve been wrestling with sickness both in my body and my soul. The words are there, but they refuse to break forth . . .
but I need to do something about this. because can I really call myself a writer if I never write?
I wanna love You better whatever it takes . . . 
You are thinking “black and white” or “all or nothing”.
You do write sometime, you can’t write all the time , so its a matter of time and money.
If you are Stephen King you get paid for your work of fiction-imagination.
If you are unknown you don’t get paid. You probably have more important things to do, or HAVE to do other things.
King wrote he had to write for years in waiting.
Then the question is even with years of writing , is my writing any good to others willing to pay for it?
Thanks for this, Mark. Sometimes I feel like it’s not so much about being paid, but being read. Sure, I would love to be able to not have to work at a job that sucks away my soul, but I know this is my reality.
But I am so caught up in my identity as a “writer” that it’s hard for me to respect myself when I *don’t* write. if that makes sense?!