I don’t write any more. At all. This might be the most consistent period of not writing in my entire life. I don’t journal privately. I’m not writing very much for work. I haven’t written a single word of fiction since my dad’s lung cancer diagnosis in August of 2016. I haven’t even written my daily sentence of gratitude in that one green notebook I keep by the couch since June. I don’t call myself a writer anymore because I don’t write. I’m not a blogger. I don’t blog. I don’t know who I am. Maybe a worker? I have done a lot of that. For the first time in a decade I have four figures worth of dollars even after the mortgage. I bought a coffee table. It is lovely. I miss writing. I feel stupid because every time I come back here I say that. I’m one of those annoying people who talks about how busy they are all the time. I am not busy. Maybe I’m lazy. Maybe I’m depressed. Maybe the words have disappeared because I’m so angry all the time. Maybe I can try 200 words a day for 20 days and see what that does for me.
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