Time between writing that sentence and writing this one: like a minute. Case in point. I can write first sentences well enough. I couldn't even begin to quantify how many first sentences I've thought of for novels. And god, they were all fantastic. I could assign a feeling to them--a general theme--but, alas, never a fully dressed tale and never anything past the first paragraph. Well, a couple times I was able to. But a couple out of a thousand. A fraction of a percent.
I suppose I'm particularly good at crafting pretty doors, in life and in writing. Yet in life, the problem presents itself sooner and is inherently more important (it is more critical to get on with my life than to get on with my book).
It has led me to believe that I simply don't have the drive. I have the imagination, but not the commitment and the perseverance. I do think someday I might finish my book. But my dream of being a published author (being commercially successful is not important, just that I have a solid book of my own that I can hold in my hands and give to all the English teachers I've had) in this stage of my life has, I think, gotten away from me.
Can I consider myself a writer if I can't finish my story?
Can I consider myself an artist if my art is drawn on printer paper with supplies leftover from my high school art classes? Can I consider myself an environmentalist if I'm not going door to door asking people to support the cause? Can I consider myself a gardener if all I grow is three herbs in little pots? Can I consider myself a musician if all my songs are recorded using my iPhone's Voice Memo tool?
Well, it appears I've gotten a little off topic, haven't I. *How unusual*.
Maybe I'm having an identity crisis?
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