… I certainly can’t call myself a writer if I’m not writing. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve lost my routine and my kicks. When I worked at Waterstones, I had my lunch in the staff room. I read in the staff room. I wrote in the staff room. It was easy to have 15 uninterrupted minutes to complete a free writing exercise. Jumping off points that made me realise the hundreds and thousands of stories within me that I wanted to tell. I went to a playwriting group. I would make the 60 mile round trip to my old university for a gathering on the occasional Monday. I had the best attendance.
It made me write. It kept the passion burning. God I hate myself for saying that. When I experienced glimpses of writing it affirmed my want. Now I don’t do any writing at all. I’ve forgotten all I want to say and the bright eyed graduate that wanted to put humans and their struggles on the stage. I knew I wouldn’t reach the greatest heights; force students to see meaning in my work or, the pinnacle of my aspiration, get away with writing a 20-minute piece and people pay the same as a full length play because it was written by me! I knew none of that would happen. A paying audience would be nice. My name in lights above the Royal Court would have been nice.
I must learn new habits.