I was having a little reorganise yesterday and I came across my sketchbook in a drawer. At first I was pretty excited, and it was fun looking at old doodles:
But after a while I just felt really depressed, and a bit ashamed. It’s been nine months since I last added anything to the book.
I mean, I know I’m no artist, but at least I used to have a go. I used to enjoy it too. There’s nothing like the buzz that comes from creating something, even if it is something a bit naff.
And whilst sketching is one thing, writing is totally another. I doodle for fun, but I take myself seriously as a writer, and it’s been nearly as long since I last sat down to seriously write.
I know this year’s been one of great upheaval. I’ve moved back to the UK, started a new career in a new city, blah blah blah. I’m currently juggling work and a training course, and let’s not even talk about money. But come on. That’s life. There’s always something getting in the way. What I’m thinking is that things are not getting in the way, I’m getting in my own way.
I’ve been playing around with an idea for a novel for a couple of months now. I’ve got my characters, my setting, every night I lay in bed dreaming up new storylines. Guess how much I’ve written? Yep, nothing. At what point do I sit back and say to myself ‘you’re not a writer, you’re a daydreamer’?