In which my concept of self is put sorely to the test

I've realized something about myself, and it's a something I don't like very much.

I don't really write much.

And that stinks.

I mean, I write on my blog, I guess, and I sometimes write in my journal. I write emails, I write little notes in little little notebooks, I write grad school application essays...

But I don't write stories. I don't. And that's...

That's just not acceptable, people. And it doesn't jive with what I imagine myself to be.

I once told a good friend of mine that I felt that writing was my real calling in life, that I had stories I wanted to tell.

But since then, I've spent much more time reading than writing, or watching movies or checking blogs or filing my fingernails or eating sandwiches or doing pretty much anything but writing.

So my question to myself is this: "Self, are you ever going to get down to it? Are you ever going to seriously sit down and make yourself write every blasted day so that you will eventually become an Author? (With a capital 'A?') Will you finish those novels you have lurking in the dusty corners of your computer's hard drive? Will you?"

And my answer to myself is still pending. I just don't know if I have the perseverance.

(But I hope I do.)