I realised that calling myself a writer is a problem, because I write so sporadically. It's made me question this name I've given myself.
When I was reading about Mary Shelley for my essay, I found something that said in her youth, she made a distinction between the stuff she wrote and the stuff she dreamt. Her writings were those she would show to close friends, but her dreams were all her own. I could be seriously misreading, but I can so relate to this. I generally 'write' in my head, putting thoughts into coherence; the moment they form sentences, they dissipate. They really do. Maybe this is why I write rather stuntedly. Words don't flow as easily onto the page as I'd like them to.
I wish I could just copy down all the details of my dreams or something. Dreams are vivid and you feel your way around in them as you would do in a new country. There've been times when I've woken up and I give myself completely into the illusion of the dream; all my wishes, fears and desires rush to the surface and dissolve into the air.
Maybe I'm not a writer; I'm a dreamer.
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