More precisely: Am I a writer or do I merely enjoy the trappings of the writer?
And with this set of questions I began a bit of introspection.
Though I do not derive my daily sustenance from the commission of writing, I have, on occasion, completed works of professional length. These completions have, at least to date, always been followed by periods of languor, whereupon I quickly lose the oh-so-crucial momentum that was achieved and experienced.
Writing consistency has been my greatest bane, for which I have yet to find my own personal balm. Carrot or stick? All I know is that I am the distracted donkey in the middle of the conundrum.
As one of my esteemed co-bloggers here has stated, it starts by carving out the necessary time per day. Could it really be that simple? When I look back at the time periods of my greatest productivity, I see exactly that. A commitment to consistency. A refusal to be distracted from the goal. The application of time to the craft.