Some days I think of myself as a non-practicing writer. Like someone who was raised Catholic but no longer observes any of the sacraments. Or someone who identifies with the cultural aspects of their Jewish heritage but not the religious parts.

It’s like I identify as a writer but I’m not doing any of the things that might make someone else believe that about me. These are usually not bright days, existentially. I am overcome with questions about who I am and what I’m doing with my time, with my energy. I find myself getting down and wondering really what I am all about. Why do I even put all this pressure on myself to create, to try to do something different in the world? Wouldn’t it be easier to not worry about something as trivial as a sentence? Wouldn’t I enjoy life more if I didn’t have this nagging desire to reach people at the center of my identity? 

The idea that I am a non-practicing writer feels like it comes out of nowhere too. One moment, I’m plugging along, feeling good about my place in the world. The next, I’m asking myself if I’m a writer or an aspiring writer or a future writer. Am I a non-practicing writer much in the same way that I’m a non-practicing vegetarian or a non-practicing millionaire?

It can be the doldrums for sure. But then I consider what has led me to this questioning. I consider what it means to be a writer. Then, on the good days, I go do some writing. On the bad days, I wallow a little more, and then do some writing.

Except when I don’t, of course. I don’t always do the right thing even when I know what it is. Today though, today I did some writing. And today is usually enough.