“Do you like writing?” A co-worker looked hard at me over the top of her laptop and mine.

“I love it. I miss it.” I didn’t have to think before answering, but I did after. I love it. I miss it. But why don’t I do it? Why do I update this blog monthly at best, when my goal was daily? Why do I have two manuscripts languishing, when I could at least be looking for agents? Why do I have so many ideas for new (even if unsold) stories that I won’t commit to paper?

It’s not lack of thought. I think about my stories when I get up, when I drive, during the day, when I fall asleep reading. I write blog posts in my head, letters to Evan that will never be sent, random thoughts that… well, okay, nobody will miss reading those. Even this post is being written in scraps of time, piece by piece, when I can.

So, I love it. I miss it. But I don’t do it. Why not?

I focus on what I don’t do. Why can’t I recognize what I do? That I work my butt off from before dawn until after dusk? That I spend a chunk of that home time playing with my beautiful little boy? Why can’t that be enough?

It just isn’t enough. I need to give myself credit for those things, but I’ve defined myself as a writer. And I’m not doing it.