What if the Problem is Me?

Obviously, I’m not doing a good job with writing right now.

At all.

Sure, I admitted I would be taking somewhat of a hiatus, but only as an afterthought. I’ve also mentioned before how I’ve been overwhelmingly busy, and part of it was the month of High Holy Days, with no little amount of stress involved.

However, what’s the first thing which stopped in this situation, which usually is the first thing to stop in similar situations?

Writing.

I hate this, that this is what I do. Does everything get in the way of my writing? Or is writing not that important to me?

Which is it? Why am I like this?

During the High Holy Days, my congregation visited a sister congregation in Wisconsin, and when I was supposed to be singing hoshana’s Sunday morning on Hoshana Rabbah, I sat mystified by a poisonous idea growing dangerously in my mind: “If I moved here I could write. I could escape all the pain and chaos, and write.”

But what if the problem is me?

What if I’m not a good enough writer because I don’t sacrifice everything for writing? Because when the “going gets tough”, the first thing I inadvertently, inevitably, habitually cut out is writing, not something else?

What if I’m not a good enough writer because I’m not as dedicated to my craft as I should be? I’m not taking enough risks; I’m not standing up for myself, my dreams, my desires — even if I’m crazy?

Why is this my pattern?

And is it just me or do other writers suffer from this too?

Dare I even call myself a writer? I’ve never done it professionally before, so am I shaming the profession by calling myself one when I can’t seem to manage any amount of consistency or dedication?

What are my dreams and passions worth if I can’t match them with faithful, consistent, deliberate dedication?

Unfortunately, right now, I don’t have answers, only these burning, excruciating, vulnerable questions. Maybe one day, my answers will come.

But I’m not giving up, not even on myself.