I am not a writer.

Never in my whole life did I ever think that I fit the title.

I stare at a blank document constantly, waiting for something to hit, when I actually gain the urge to sit down and type.

Piles of books were ready to be devoured in a two-week period before going back to the library for more. This happened every summer when I was younger. The classics, “good” writers, always looked boring and slow. Still, putting pen to paper back then left scratches of overdramatic scenes and cliche sentences.

In school, rules on writing never stuck and struggling to convey emotion in an intellectual way escaped my lips. A wobbly foundation mirrored the grammar stumbling from the lack of English at home, and punctuation was never a proper acquaintance of mine.

I remember a girl in my freshman class that wrote a hook line about birds that was praised heavily, and the jealousy that stormed my body had me wanting to be able to do that. That’s how it all started, which seems ridiculous to think now. The only reason that I took as many English classes that I could in high school was just for the reason that there was a desire to improve.

I never saw myself as a writer because I am hesitant towards the stereotype it exudes.

I hate writing fiction, which is a weird trait for the archetype. I don’t want to feel like I have to minor in creative writing if I am one. Non-fiction tells the story of the real world from honest eyes, and different details, even if the writer does not have a similar belief system in comparison to the readers.

Inspiration almost never hits and I’m not dedicated to writing every waking moment.

I am made up simple sentences and unsystematic paragraphs with no sense of connection in random notes on my iPhone. Just random words I thought up in an instance with no reason. I can’t explain to you why me eating a ham sandwich - sorry, I mean turkey - would spring up poetry. I’m not able to finish a rough draft without stopping along to think about straying off my initial thought, or I lose concentration anyway without noticing (damn you, ham sandwiches). If I do end up writing something in the moment the second I stop there is an internal refusal to go back. Not for the reason that the work is my baby and I refuse to edit, I’m just on to better things right after. My mind races to capture it all.

However, procrastination is still my weakness. There are long periods where I ignore writing overall just because everything is too hard to write about if the words always run away from me.

Many people think of a writer as any other artist, suffering for their craft. Pain certainly is a powerful inspiration. A source of passion and a healthy way to release it as it comes with the choice to either destroy your work or have others relate. I am often serious in my pieces, however shy when showing the inner corners.

I am made up of formal words and traces of trendy slang that’s dipped in sarcasm and wit. I always ask questions, and often don’t write the answers to them. Maybe that’s why I think this of myself.

Empty journals sit as I stare at a white wall. Maybe I can figure out how to dip the ink and not soil the paper with nonsense, later to be thrown away. It sits, collecting dust.

I am not a writer, I'm not just a simple action. I'm just showing what can't be seen.

I could do it for the rest of my life, but it wouldn’t make me more or less happy.