A Day in the Life of a Pseudo-Writer

7 Oct

I wake up. I’m immediately greeted with the thought that I want to be a writer when I grow up. I remind myself that I am a writer. I am also a grown up. Sort of. I recite the mantra, “I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.”

I go to work. I teach. I read my students’ writing. I am envious of the fact that they are actually writing. I am envious of the fact that they have a teacher telling them to write, giving them the gift of time to write. I wish I had my own such task master.

I am inspired by their words, by their experiences, by their stories. I want to write them, for them. The ideas rattle around in my mind, distracting. The ideas turn into words which turn into sentences which turn into paragraphs which turn into pages in my mind.

The work day ends. I pick up one child, then go home and wait for the second. Snacks. Toys. Books. Homework. Dinner. Laundry. Baths. Dishes. More Books. Bedtime Rituals.


I grade papers. Enter grades. Answer emails.

All the while the pages float, idle, waiting, impatient.

I sit on the couch. I think about how I should exercise. I eat candy instead. I think about how I want to be writing. I watch TV instead.

I crawl to bed. I pick up my phone to set my alarm and take a moment to check what’s happening on Twitter. I see my friends and my idols, all creative geniuses, all writing. Poems, blogs, books. Productive. Working. Writers.

The pages in my mind give up fighting and settle into the folds of my memory. Maybe tomorrow, I think. Maybe then. Maybe then I will be a writer who actually writes.


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