In a recent post, Fiona Robyn mused, “Most of the time being a writer is about looking out at the frosted grass, and sipping earl grey, and not writing.” Sometimes I think I do my best writing when I’m knitting or crocheting or sewing, when my hands are occupied with something other than typing. Even playing mindless computer games sometimes brings forth the crucial bit of action to move my story or novel forward (if I can ever pull myself away from the mindless computer game). I grew up with the notion that a “true” writer is constantly writing, at least scribbling in a notebook at every free moment. A “true” writer cannot do anything but write, write, write.
I wonder. Part of what drives me to write is the joy of creation, much the same joy that I feel when I knit, crochet, sew (but not when I play mindless computer games). Writing is like piecing together a quilt, or watching a deceptively simple looking pattern unfold from an eye-crossing knitting schematic. Unfortunately, I cannot wear my writing (except on my sleeve) like I can wear the scarves, shawls, sweaters I create. I can’t even use my writing to cover my bed like I would a quilt (well, technically I could, but it wouldn’t be as warm and cozy). If I were a full-time writer, or even a full-time knitter, crocheter, sewer, this would not be too much of a problem. But I am a writer with a day job, something that has nothing to do with writing novels or stories, or knitting up scarves and shawls, or piecing quilts. Time is finite and I want to do it all — the whole creative process that, for me, starts with the hands (knitting, crocheting, sewing, typing, hand writing) and continues through the mind. However and whenever the words make it to the page, I am a writer. It’s not the frequency of my writing. It’s just the fact that I do write.