I was on the phone with my mom for a couple hours this afternoon. I hadn't talked to her in a little while so that was good. I wanted to go visit her tomorrow, but she had already made plans. :( We live a 1/2 hour apart, but that's still too much drive for me most days. ~sigh~
Anyway, I was telling her that I read a blog today where someone said (paraphrased) that a writer who doesn't have a butt ton of ideas or runs out of ideas wasn't a real writer. Wha-? I consider myself a "real" writer, an author even, and I can tell you that I'm not exploding with ideas. In fact, I'm lucky to have one idea at any given time. An idea, to me, means something that is worth the time to flesh out into a novel.
Sure, I might have fleeting thoughts that pass through my mind. Some of them even grow into ideas over time. As frustrating for me as that lack is, just because I'm not near bursting, and bemoaning having to choose from all these myriad of ideas, doesn't make me any less of an author than someone who can fill dozens of idea notebooks and churn out ten novels a year.
I tried not to be offended at such an egotistical, offhanded remark, but a part of me is still stewing. And admittedly a little jealous. However, I also realize we're all different. We operate differently; from pantsers to plotters. From prolific to sparse. From short stories to massive epics. You get my point.
We're all writers. I hope we can remember that just because we do something differently doesn't make our method any more or less right.