Quitting

I am thinking about quitting. Not life, this time, just writing. I am giving serious consideration to quitting writing for good.

Of course, if I quit writing, if I give up on that, then it begs the question, "why am I here?". If I quit even trying to write, then why not commit suicide?

I have identified myself as a writer for so long, it is difficult to imagine letting go of that. It has become part of my identity, and is not easily discarded.

Still, I have not written anything in more than a year. No, this blog doesn't count. I'm talking about creative writing. I speak of stories and poems. Anyone can write a blog. Not everyone can write a story. I used to be able to, but I am apparently empty. There seems to be nothing left in the tank, which makes the decision that much easier.

I have not decided yet, but I will decide soon. I'll let you know.

I always thought it would be better to write crap than to write nothing. I thought I would rather be a bad writer than not be a writer at all. Lately, though, I don't feel it. My heart is dark and empty, and nothing comes out of it anymore. It has become a black hole, the heart of my darkness. No light escapes. I have no inner light. There's nothing there but darkness now, and I'm tired of staring at it.