You don’t actually want to be a writer, you just want someone to notice you.
Someone to listen.
You can pay a therapist for this by the way. It’s pretty effective.
But if you do all or none of that and still write something down, anything at all (and I do mean anything), with or without anyone noticing, with wisdom or wreckless abandon, then, and only then, you’re a writer.
Congratulations. You’ve got the compulsion. Can’t stop, won’t stop.
I had a teacher in college who, after watching me nearly fall asleep in his 8am Friday class, asked me to stay after for a minute.
Why are you so tired?
I’m sorry, I do music outside of school, in a band, and we were playing late last night so I didn’t get much rest.
If you want to be in a band so much, why are you in this class at all? Why don’t you just drop out?
I don’t remember how I answered, but I thought of that exchange a lot. A lot a lot. Why didn’t I just drop out? I’m still thinking of it. Just a smallish older dude too – giving me the “you gonna bark all day lil doggie?” treatment.
It’s the famous John Boyd question, over and over again,
You don’t want to be a writer. You want to write.
Done? Good. Now do it again, because that’s what writers do.