To write or not to write

That is the question.
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows
Of writers' block and the disdain by others
Or to take pen in hand
Or keyboard on lap
And by imposing one's will
End the doldrums.

There seems to be a lot of writer's block here lately, especially judging by the blogs and by my own frustration. I planned to return to my WIP forthwith, sat down and build a fire after son and wife left home. And have instead spent the last 45 minutes tending to a fire that won't stay alive.

Is that experience, and the accompanying noting of similes and metaphors between tending a fire and tending a life, is that sufficient to be "writing" and me a writer? Or must I be writing to be a writer? Is a facility with words and the absent-mindedness of a writer enough?

I have written newspaper columns, newsletters, law briefs, news releases and drafted legal opinions. Some of those opinions were printed in official law reporters; I also have three unpublished (unsubmitted) novels. I've had book reviews in a law trade magazine, published two articles in my law school's Law Review, written one obituary for a judge I'd worked for, and wrote (and delivered) a memorial speech for a second judge to deliver in a courtroom dedication ceremony honoring a judge who had been his friend and for whom the new courtroom was to be named.

That speech, too, was memorialized in a case law reporter. And it was a fascinating experience. I'd expected to simply tag along with my judge (a 90-year-old senior status federal judge) but he called me that morning and said he couldn't go, and would I mind delivering it in his stead? So I went, to the federal courthouse, and to the designated courtroom expecting at most to read the speech, more likely to simply submit it for later publication.

Instead, I was placed in the jury box with the State Attorney General, the Chief Judge for the Court of Appeals, and a U.S. Senator, all of whom had been friends with the deceased and had speeches to make. And I delivered the speech to the assembled multitudes, crediting my judge and expressing his disappointment at missing out. Afterward the Attorney General came up and complimented me on "my" speech. And so did the deceased's family. None of them said to tell my judge what a good speech he'd written; they all knew he was a talker, not a writer. I was flattered.

I must have had a purpose for sharing the above anecdote. I guess I still wonder if I am a writer.

So I have written some. And I have a demonstrated ease with the written language, and love for it, once I get off my duff and write -- or I guess onto my duff is the better way to put it.

I think I'll close this meander with a comment from P.G. Wodehouse, one of my very favorite authors:

"I doubt if you can ever trust an author not to make an ass of himself."

By those lights I am an author -- ask my type A wife.