I am a writer, and I love it. It has not been like this before. Blocks were stopping me from being a successful writer. I had to work on it. It was not because I was lazy. Maybe, it was because I did not have a schedule. I did it haphazardly. Of course, success eluded me for many years. Recently, I made a turn.

On my recent trip to New York, I picked up several books at my favorite bookstore, the McNally. I got a book by Elena Ferrante, and when I went to a cousin’s house for dinner, she gave me another Ferrante book that she got from the stack of books that neighbors leave in the laundry after they have finished reading them. I was so delighted that I spent days reading, not even watching a single show which used to be my practice in the evenings.

No, for a week, I spent time reading, and one morning amid a story, I felt strongly my desire to write coming back that I immediately went to my computer and wrote an article that I published on a publishing platform. Such love for writing lingered, and I spent a portion of several days writing whatever came to mind.

Somehow, the writing flowed. I have embraced the identity of being a writer. I haven’t done this before, even though I have written many articles for years. I felt I was not good enough even to call myself a writer.

A story from the past came to me, and I realized why I had the block about being a writer. Two incidents in my past stood out as crucial in making me think I was not good enough to be a writer. The first one was about my eldest sister, who is only a year older than me.

She was an excellent writer, which was evident even at an early age. It took her no time to write a story. It just came to her quickly to compose one, whereas I had to struggle to do it that often. I would offer to do her homework in exchange for a short story I could publish in our school paper. The teacher in charge of the paper invited her to be the editor-in-chief while she offered me the Features Editor.

My sister refused the offer to become editor-in-chief as she didn’t want to spend time writing. She was busy learning new songs and dances. She only wrote when I offered to do her homework if she did an article for me. It used to make me angry to see her do the piece in twenty minutes while I did her homework for hours.

The other story was when we had an essay competition on a topic I had long ago forgotten. When the judges delivered the results, I placed only second to another classmate. That nail clinched my belief that I was not a very good writer.

Since then, I never bothered to write except for homework and exams until my husband, and I decided to work as consultants in other countries. I agreed only to accept contracts that I could do wherever we were so we could spend time together. I had so much time on my hands, so I decided to write online.

Slowly, I would write articles but always asked my husband to review them to assure me it was worth publishing. I needed someone to affirm it was good enough. This review continued for years until he passed, and I lost that word of authority.

I got a mentor, but I had no one to discuss ideas with; somehow, I lost interest in writing. I gave away one of my blogs to someone keen to take it over and was happy with the transition. I thought of giving up writing and being comfortable with retirement, not doing anything, just enjoying life. Months of this did not bring me the enjoyment I thought I would gain from the decision. It made me even feel useless about not doing something substantial. I kept assuring myself I was retired now, so I should enjoy life.

Life was not enjoyable, so I kept searching. What is it that would make me happy? Little did I know that the flow came back in the simple recognition of being a writer, and I enjoyed sitting down to write.

The fear of not being good enough is gone what is left is the enjoyment of giving words to memories, events, observations, and experiences. It is weaving a story about people and life as it happens.

I now look forward to waking up, having my coffee, and sitting to write. Sometimes, the urge to write intervenes in the middle of reading, and I sit in front of my computer. It’s very liberating to get rid of that belief. It doesn’t matter whether I am good or not. I write.