Am I a writer?

Sometimes I ask myself this while staring at a blank page, or peeling the skin off a stubborn thought.

What does it mean, really, to be a writer?

I was peeling potatoes the other day.
Which is funny, because in my family I’m famous for never peeling them. Every meal with potatoes — and in Denmark, that means almost every meal — comes with eyes turning toward me. I can read their minds: Will she dare? Or will this one also come from a jar?

Love doesn’t always arrive with fireworks.
Sometimes, it comes like a letter.

The kind people once wrote with ink-stained fingers, leaning over paper with patience. Each word chosen, each pause intentional.

I used to dream of being a writer.
Not in a grand, public way — but in a teenage, notebook-filled kind of way. I had journals bursting with poems, wandering thoughts, short stories, and one "novel" that never made…

I don’t just write stories.
I build them with fig trees, suitcases, dogs, fog, voices, and stars — each chosen not by chance, but by emotional intention.

Some words are funny just by being themselves.
Goofy, for instance — it’s perfect.
It sounds like its own punchline.

Maybe you’ve done it too —
Listing reasons to hold on,
As if affection could be graphed or proven.

There’s something strange I’ve noticed about myself.

I never try to use logic when I’m falling in love.
But I do when I’m trying to stay.

My room always felt alive to me.
Sometimes it was a mirror. Sometimes a whisper of what I should be, or what I hadn’t become yet.

They say some trees know how to wait. The fig tree is one of them.

It doesn’t bloom with urgency. It doesn’t ask for attention. It grows in its own time — rooted, quiet, steady. And maybe that’s why I chose it, or maybe it chose me.