Am I really a writer?

A lot of regrets─ now insecurities, cross my mind when I think about the dreams I always had and I never accomplished; I am 29 years old, not too old as some people might say, but old enough to have screwed up a couple of times, old enough to change majors as if I was changing my underwear and even worse, dropped out completely out of college at the age of 24 because I couldn’t accept what was in me the entire time, because I wasn’t brave enough to pursue my real calling, because I chose to ignore the need I have always had to write, to tell stories to the world.

I recently changed my biography description in social media; I used to describe myself as a frustrated writer, not because unsuccess frustrated me, but because I purposely frustrated my aspirations when I was younger. I remember having a connection with written words since I was little, I used to journal, write down ideas, poems and little fairy tales, I also used to ask my mom to buy me notebooks with cute covers, then I would fill them out with stories about them, I even wrote mini sequels of the children’s books I used to read, I was all in, writing everything about everybody and every daily situation, just as I watched Harried the Spy doing it, until I hit high school.

What the heck happened to me? I still wonder, I know teenagers have these weird phases of rebellion against their parents and the rest of the world, but I really think I went too far rejecting everything that made me feel complete and fulfilled just because I didn’t want to do what other people told me I was good at (not mentioning of course all the emotional/mental/relational ups and downs I had during that time).

Today I realized how blessed I was to have a family that supported─ and still supports my hopes and dreams, something a lot of artists lack and wish to have; in fact, my family loves me so much that they even supported every decision I made even though they knew I was wasting my time and energy. I jumped from Graphic Design to Marketing, then to Architecture, then Graphic Design again, then I became an English/Spanish Translator (what a change, huh?) until I finally discovered certain love for photography, but not as passionate as I once felt about writing.

Mediocrity is not my middle name.

It’s really impressive to realize how much I was good at everything once tried; most of the work I did was related to Graphic Design and Photography─ plus the bunch of jobs that I hated but I had to take because I had nothing else; in the end, all the people who I shared my work with told me how talented I was, but at the same time it was obvious that I wasn’t enjoying myself, people either thought I was a mediocre graphic designer/photographer, or that I somehow felt obligated to do it because that was the only “formal” education I received in my life; to this point I completely forgot about writing, I even stopped reading. What people didn’t know, and I failed to realize at the time is that I lost my passion. I lost myself. I wasn’t mediocre─ although I felt like it, is just that I wasn’t being who I really was, who I was made to be, who I’ve always been.

“But when people say, did you always want to be a writer? I have to say no! I always was a writer”

Ursula Le Guin

I arrived in the Land of Opportunities with a million thoughts in my head, a lot of regrets that slowly became the roots of my anxiety and depression. “What did I do? When did I become such a failure? I want to go back to college, I want to earn a degree, but when I look at the curriculums, I already feel annoyed” “Should I just stick with Photography? Should I pursue Graphic Design? I don’t even like to sketch anymore.” “What if I’m not good at it after all? Should I change to other major?”. 

I needed to find encouragement, I needed to take advantage of the chance I was given when I became an immigrant, and since I still loved photography so much, the first thing I bought was a camera; a beautiful Canon that my mom helped me pay, and I made a promise to myself: I was going to learn photography and editing, I was not going to settle for less, mediocrity was not going to be my middle name anymore. So, I started with online courses and started buying more equipment for my camera, but as much as I liked it, as much as I took beautiful pictures, the emptiness was still there, I still wasn’t feeling it, I still thought I could do better. Until one day.

Going back to what you love, feels so natural that you really don’t feel like you have been away from it for so long, no matter how long it has been; I think about the fish that get caught but somehow manage to jump into the water again, a sense of relief, of being home, the place where you belong, where you are yourself again with no masks, where you feel anything can happen. That was the way I felt when I picked up a pen and an old notebook of my sister and wrote my first true sentence: Andrea, I’m sorry. My counselor had suggested to write a letter to my 16-year-old self. When I did, I poured my heart out on it.

Writing that letter was a powerful moment, an incredible process of catharsis and purification of my soul, as I was writing I felt like I was re discovering myself, I was finally finding the piece of my existence that I didn’t even remember I had lost and I was missing so much. I was writing again. I was myself again. I was a fish under the water again.

So, the next day, I bought a notebook and a pen for myself and I started writing.

Have I really been a writer all this time?

Finding writing again felt so natural, although it wasn’t and still isn’t easy at all; I feel inspired all the time, but words don’t always come out as I want them to, I have so many ideas all the time, but by the time I get to my notebook I completely forgot what I wanted to say, I start writing a piece and suddenly I don’t like it anymore or I feel like is not good enough. Whenever I pick up pen and paper my insecurities and negative emotions start popping up and making me feel like I am a frustrated writer, not an aspired one.

I decided not to live my life under that instability anymore, after a lot of hesitation I finally became aware that I am not a writer because of the amount of words that I write, the drafts that I finish or the ability to put my ideas in order for a blog post, rather, I write because I am and have always been a writer, I will sit down and let my thoughts and stories come down to my pen or keyboard because I have them in me, I might have to make an effort to dig and find them sometimes, I might get overwhelmed in the process, but I am a writer, and writers make things happen, even the impossible.

Just as a bird never stops being a bird because it’s not flying, I’ve never stopped being a writer because I stopped writing, I just forgot that I was for a while.