The Writer (or Maybe the One Becoming One)

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?
Is it the act of writing itself — or does it require a stamp, a spine, a barcode, a name printed on a cover?

I once searched for definitions. They said:
A writer is a person who uses written words to communicate ideas, to inspire feelings, to entertain.
That sounded both too big and too small.

Because to me, being a writer has always been about something simpler — and maybe purer.
It’s about giving words meaning, the way a gardener gives soil purpose.

When I was a child, I used to fall asleep with a dictionary by my side.
Other kids had plush toys. I had verbs.
At night, I would open random pages just to see what worlds lived there.

Words felt like seashells — small, but carrying the echo of entire oceans.
I began collecting them.
And soon, I realized that when I arranged them differently, they made new music.

Writing became my game.
A play of arranging, connecting, and hoping something true might appear between the lines.
Some plays ended as stories. Others as quiet prayers.

Maybe that’s why I hesitate to call myself a writer.
Because the title sounds finished, and I am not.
I’m still playing. Still rehearsing. Still finding where the words want to go.

For years, I wrote professionally — for brands, for clients, for meaning.
But lately, I’ve been writing for something quieter: to belong to words again.

The word writer has started growing inside me, like a seed that has finally found its soil.
It feels less like a label and more like a promise.

So, I write.
Not for recognition, not for proof — but for the joy of finding what words can still become.

Perhaps I am a writer.
Or maybe just a girl still listening to her dictionary.

Either way, I’m here —
your writer at heart, and maybe still in disguise.

— Gabi