I think some part of me has always known how to write, and some other part of me has always known that i’ve always known how to write. But did i write ? Never (well not until now)

“Journaling doesn’t count as writing” I would tell myself, because real writers wrote for others to read and not in their little diaries for themselves.

”You’re not a prodigy writer anyway” i would say, because my short stories and essays in primary & secondary school were never extraordinary like those of the girls I admired. They got praise from the English teachers about their superb writing skills and i got no acknowledgments because my essays were nothing spectacular.

I’ve always seen writing as something that was for other people, people with actually talent, never for me. I would read books and articles and commend the authors because how blessed they must be to be so gifted with their words. I was always in awe of them.

Two days before this I read an old journal entry of mine from 2019 because i was having one of those deeply emotional days. I’m not sure if it’s because i was reading my words through eyes blurred by tears or because I was having post-breakdown clarity but for the first time i saw it; my own talent, my own way with words. I too was good at writing, I too could be a writer.

And so birthed bibitheclosetedwriter (of course my username is heavily inspired by personal experiences, how else would you be able to tell i’m cool ?)

I’m writing this by 2am on a cool Thursday morning as if it were a journal entry because maybe this might be my writing style. Not everyone would write a bestseller novel, some of us will write articles, some of us will write poems, some will write columns in magazine, all are still writings.

You have put your words into paper, whether you shared them with the world or you kept them to yourself and that in itself has made you a writer.

So i asked myself “Stephanie do you want to be a Writer?” I do, and that is all that matters.