I am a writer.... am I a writer?

Basically, it is the inner torment of my life. 

I am a writer.  When words flow from my fingertips, I feel this rush.  I feel like for the first time, I am creating something, forming something, being omnipotent (as the washing and vacuuming piles up behind me).

But, then, it all ends.  I stop writing.  Life gets in the way.  I don't know where to turn, and I end up working on the philosophy of that song, "Oh, so lovely sitting absobloominglutely still.... I would never break til spring, crept over the windowsill"....  And I do, I find myself sitting, without moving, shunning the outside world, longing to be in my virtual world of make believe, but afraid to cross the divide.

I don't know why I feel this way?  Somehow, I should KNOW that when I am writing, I am alive.  But, almost like a creepy vine, something stops me from moving ahead.  I become afraid, paralysed by it.  It takes all my strength to escape the clutches of apathy, and move forward. 

So, I have this constant struggle, a fear of failure, of not being good enough, of just not being wise, and it stops me from actually writing.  The irony is this, by not doing, I prove to myself that I am a failure, I am not good enough, and I lack wisdom. 

Today I promise myself.  I will write everyday.  No matter what.  Whether it is good, bad or indifferent.  Surely I can carve out a few minutes from my still-sitting lifestyle to write something. ;)