Quit your fucking complaining and get out of bed.
I know - you haven't written anything over at Dirt Dogs in over a month. Can't think of anything to write. Hellacious writer's block. Blah blah blah. Even here on this blog, which is as close to empty mental masturbation as it gets - you haven't written anything in weeks.
Well, sport, I hate to tell you, but that just ain't good enough. Writers write - that's what makes them writers. And you aren't writing shit lately, which must mean you're not a writer - or not much of one.
What's the matter? Sure, you don't labor under the structured life of a REAL writer - a beat writer, for example, knows exactly what he's going to write about every day: the game, and maybe another six to twelve column-inches of notebook. A columnist has a good idea of what to write, and besides, he has to write something because his livelihood depends on it. Ditto a writer of books: gotta get that three to six pages per day in, and at the end of the year you got yerself a whole new book.
But you? You don't have to worry about anything. You write just for the sheer pleasure of writing, of looking back on a finished piece and deriving pleasure in its creation. The simplest, least complicated avenue to creative expression there is, for Christ's sake!
And you can't even get it together to write down 400 pleasant words that please people.
You have 30 bad pages of a book you started years ago that you're afraid to look at because you cringe at the stiff dialog, improbable circumstances and outlandish plot. Have another latté, you lazy bastard. You know in your heart that first drafts are always bad, but you still use that as an excuse to ignore it for yet another weekend, month, year.
You're not a writer. You're just fucking pretending.