Day 158

Writing.
Since I was 3 years old, since the first time I picked up a crayon and started to learn to print my name; I have been writing.  That was until last year when at age 36 I stopped.
Oh there have been dribbles of things in the last year and a half,  a page here, a paragraph there, the oddly strung together sentence scribbled on sticky-notes; blog posts mostly.
I've been doubting myself for the last year and a half.  After 33 years of writing, of knowing I was a writer, of dreaming of nothing but having my novels and poetry published; I stopped.  Something in me just shut down.
Writing.
What I love about it is that you get to design everything, get to say all the lines.  Be as witty and beautiful as a movie star or model.  To think up the clothes, the hair dos, the music choices.  Things you might not be able to do physically in the real world. 
I could never be a clothes designer.  It's not something I can figure out. Sewing, knitting etc.  I've tried and everything comes out looking like rags.   But I can describe it when I write a character.
Place them in dark jeans, sneakers, a grey tee with a faded logo for a band I thought of. Give them some talisman or simply have them wear nothing but their boxers.
Writing.
I managed to write two pages of something early this morning.  A vague skeleton of a scene simply because I thought of a man and a match book cover.
In a few months, I'll be turning 38 and I have to ask myself if I still think I can get over the doubt and get back to writing. 
Really writing...