I’ve been reading books on writing in my few moments before turning the light off and sleeping. I finished Scott Meredith’s book a few weeks ago and have since turned to Sol Stein’s book How to Grow a Novel: the Most Common Mistakes Writers Make and How to Overcome Them.

Last night I came across this passage in Stein’s book that accurately describes what I’ve been feeling since I haven’t been consistently producing on my own book.

The definition “a writer is someone who cannot not write” may seem clumsy, but acquaintance will reveal its eccentric virtue. Consider the opposite: a nonwriter is someone who can writer or not, who does not have the drive and need to put words to paper.

A writer is someone who looks forward to the day’s work, even if it lasts only an hour or two before the writer has to dash to a job that supports him and his family until such happy time that the writing itself may be economically rewarding. On those days when external circumstances prevent his writing, a writer feels a hollowness, an absence, a longing.

I haven’t talked about writing much in the last month or more because I really haven’t been doing much of it. I’ve thought about it a lot, but thinking won’t write the book for me. I keep trying to blame it on “being busy” but I don’t think that is accurate or legitimate because there are plenty of people I know who are just as busy (or busier!) than I am and still get writing done.

Regardless of my reasons for not writing, I am feeling the acute emptiness—”an absence, a longing”—that comes from neglecting this need.

I better get back on this train before it leaves me behind.