The Guilt of a Writer

Is a non-practising writer still a writer?

I am entangled in a web of guilt. Translucent, anxious, crystalline threads that weave a blanket around me. As much a straitjacket as a cocoon. I am suffering from the guilt of a writer. An unpublished writer. A writer who hasn’t written in 4 months. Someone audacious enough to still think and call herself a writer.

Will I become a writer forever if the spine of a book carries my name?

Am I a writer only when wrapped up in the act of writing? Will I become a writer forever if the spine of a book carries my name? Am I spineless for not having any words to my name?

I am surrounded by a confetti of excuses: work and family, life and laziness. Writing takes time and effort, causes cuts and calluses, creates anger and desperation. And what does it give back? A squeal of joy at the end of a chapter, a rainbow of illumination when the plot carves its own path, and perhaps one day some form of validation, self or otherwise.

I read recently about how people from Bhutan think of death at least once a day, not a morbid fascination, but a form of inspiration. If I were to die today, would I be happy with what I’ve left behind?

Definitely not.

I am a writer from within and I’ve known it for many, many years. But knowing is very different from doing. Do I have the guts to write? Do I dare be a writer?