“I am a writer.” What do you write?
“I am a writer.” Have you been published?
“I am a writer.” Do you earn a living by writing?
“I am a writer.” Do you deserve to use that title?
“I am a writer.” Are you sure?
“I am a writer.” But…
Are you worthy of the title, “writer”?
If you write, then yes, you’re worthy of the title, “writer”. When the words won’t come, does it affect you? Then you’re a writer. You don’t have to be published or famous, you don’t have to have a great body of work or a masterpiece, you don’t have to focus on one genre, you don’t have to earn a living with your words. To be a writer, one must write, must think about writing, or must desire to write.
For years, I struggled with writer’s block, self doubt, and other challenges. The words were in my heart and head, but I couldn’t get them out. The difference between then and now is that I fully claim the title, “writer,” and I don’t hold myself to some ridiculous standard of what that means. We’re often our own worst critics, allowing self doubt to cripple us, but that can change.
On November 1, 2025, I committed to blogging here on CrystalTouchton.com for 100 days. I’ve had some challenges during this time, mainly with my health, and I’ve had days where the words flowed easier than others, but I’ve stayed true to my commitment. It’s now day 43 of my 100 day blogging challenge. But my decision to step into my identity as a writer didn’t start on November 1, 2025.
On August 17, 2025, I made the declaration, “I am a writer”, in a personal journal. I want to share and preserve that entry here.
I always loved to write, until I didn’t. As a kid, I wrote stories, and as a teen, I wrote poetry. I loved writing essays, reports, and I journaled off and on. I wrote on paper, in my head, using my thoughts like my favorite pen, and online. And then I didn’t.
For a while now, writing has been difficult, like a chore or an impossible goal. The idea of writing, the abstract, untouchable, unreachable idea of it better than the act. Thoughts of it, fleeting whispers of days gone by, and the love and confidence it created in me, now a drying brook, where life once flourished, and water ran clear and unencumbered.
I want writing not to feel so impossible or heavy anymore. I want to enjoy the moments where ink flows smoothly from my pen and also find joy in the pauses when the words won’t come.
So here I am, writing something for only myself. Showing up to give my mind time to wander and reflect, and let the words flow onto the pages of this book when they’re meant to. This won’t be perfect, but maybe that’s what I need to rekindle my love of writing. I hope writing for my chosen career and my purpose both become easier and more fulfilling if I reserve this small place and time to explore myself and my thoughts. Maybe this will help me process the past, the future. Maybe it’s a place I can sit in quiet contemplation of the present. A place to stop and smell the roses, a place to enjoy a warm cuppa.
I claim this: “I am a writer”.