Mar 2, 2025
There’s this moment—right before you say it out loud—where the words taste like metal in your mouth.
I am a writer.
Even though you’ve spent years collecting notebooks like relics, scribbling in margins like it’s prayer, even though the stories have been whispering in your head for as long as you can remember—you hesitate. Because calling yourself something feels like a contract. A permission slip you were never handed.
And if that hits home, you might want to read this:
A faceless old writer lives in my walls, hoarding unfinished drafts, whispering stories. They never share them. That writer is me.
