There are lots of projects I want to work on, but haven't been able to. Writing a little is almost worse than not writing at all. It's just enough to almost scratch the itch, but not enough to make it go away.
It's like a drug. If I gave it up cold turkey, after a while I could convince myself that the need isn't there. I could archive all the files, put away all the books, chuck my special pens and be someone who used to write. I could twist the desire and refocus the energy into something else.
Until the next time I had to clean out the attic, or copy old files onto a new hard drive. Then the books and files, pens and notebooks would come out again, and I'd bemoan the lost years.
I need to face the truth. Things like this don't go away. Not really. They can be overwhelmed and surmounted by other obligations and desires, but that just means it will go into remission. This isn't something that's bolted onto my psyche, like an aftermarket hood ornament.
Being a storyteller isn't something I do.
It's who I am.
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