I like to write, but I am not a writer.
I have several unfinished stories of various scopes and degrees of completion sitting in the Writing folder on my computer — a dozen short stories, two potential novella-length works (19,500 words and 10,100 words so far, respectively), and one completed piece of short fiction that I wrote seven years ago, trite and utterly predictable though it may be. (I believe it was Ray Bradbury who said that a writer’s first million words are just for practice.)
I’d like to try my hand at short fiction, especially since I don’t seem to have the mental stamina to stick with a novel-length work long enough to finish it. (I’d love to know how both of my books end! I’d love nothing more than to pick one of them up at a Barnes & Noble and thumb through it in one of the comfy chairs in a corner, learning about my characters and their worlds… but that’s not how it works.) Short fiction, though… that takes a certain amount of wit. Savvy. Planning. All of which will take some time to develop.
Unfortunately, the base issue I have with my writing is the same base issue I have with my Zen practice. Call it Butt In Chair, call it Tush To The Cushion, or (in photography parlance) call it f/8 And Be There. It all boils down to just doing something. Do something, and keep doing it until you get better at it.
Until I get better at it.