The Writer in My Head

When I was at school, I sometimes dreamed of becoming a writer. My literature teacher praised my essays, and with all my teenage passion and enthusiasm, I started thinking it meant something.

I started writing a book.

It was a fantasy novel about a witty and fearless girl. I was writing it by hand in an old notebook with yellow pages because I didn’t have a computer at the time. I spent a few evenings coming up with funny dialogues, metaphors, and plot twists. I knew the names and appearances of my characters, but life happened, and this story has stayed neglected for half of my life, with only 20 or 30 pages written.

I thought I could write poetry and created a poem. I even had music playing in my head and thought that if I couldn’t finish a novel, maybe poems or song lyrics would work better.

Turns out, no.

Only one poem was written, and I never wanted to try again.

After I graduated from school, I wanted to become a journalist and write stories that mattered. But I was told there were already too many journalists, and I had nothing that made me stand out, so it would be better to choose a safer option.

I even wrote a few articles for a website for free, hoping they would like them and it would mean I was meant to write. They published them, but success never came.

I kept writing for myself, for my husband, and sometimes for my blog. One kind person told me she liked how sincere I was and that I should continue. Another person told me I should start a Substack blog because my stories could change people’s lives.

So I gave it another shot.

First, I registered here, on Substack, and looked around for some time. Then I published a few stories. Then there was a note that went viral, and overnight I got thousands of subscribers.

It felt like a dream come true.

I could write and get feedback. I was talking to people, and they were answering. I could share my thoughts, my feelings, my small moments, and somehow they resonated with others.

It was easy to believe I was naturally good at it.

It was easy to believe that I had finally found my voice and my path.

It was easy to believe that from that moment everything would change.

“You just keep writing. Be persistent and it will pay off. You’re almost there,” the voice in my head encouraged me, and the kind comments on my page echoed.

It felt almost too good to be true.

Turns out, reality is different.

Numbers and statistics. Hot and controversial topics. The fear of an empty page. The fear of being misunderstood and judged. And so much more.

The thing I loved from the very beginning, the thing I had dreamed of, turned out to be a very different creature.

In my head, a writer is someone who loves writing and always has something to say.

They always have a witty metaphor, a clever saying, or just the perfect phrase that becomes a beautiful punchline.

They wake up with a smile on their face because, during the night, they dreamed about another brilliant plot twist. Then they make their morning coffee, take their laptop, and sit in their garden to write it all down.

The birds are singing. The gentle morning light softens the world around them. Everything is quiet and peaceful while the author creates.

They can’t stop writing because there is a fire inside them. Their passion and ideas are endless. Their words are meaningful and highly quotable.

They don’t just talk about important things.

They inspire.

They heal.

They spark something inside people.

They comfort.

And so much more.

Now I am sitting on an old faded bench in my not-so-aesthetic backyard, listening to a constantly barking dog somewhere nearby and squeaky children playing and shooting balls at my fence, and I wonder how different my perfect picture is from reality.

I don’t have fancy, quotable metaphors in my head 24/7.

Most of the time, I’m afraid to write.

I force myself to do it, but I keep avoiding it for as long as possible.

On one hand, I have this nasty little voice in my head that speaks in paragraphs. It keeps ringing until I finally sit down and write everything that’s currently stuck inside.

On the other hand, I know that I never hit the charts. I never catch the trends. I very rarely write something that feels truly worthy.

And, of course, I have a pretty serious case of what is called impostor syndrome.

Some days I get inspired and think I should give writing another chance.

Other days I realize I’m talking into the void and feel miserable.

All the words have already been said.

All the stories have already been told.

Some days I write a few essays, create new characters, and think that words are one of the most powerful things in this world. It feels like such a privilege to be able to use them in both ways: to read and to write.

Other days I hate my Word document, delete paragraphs, and spiral downwards.

They say that if you want to write something, all you need to do is write.

I wonder if that includes receiving constant “no”s from agents and publishers, getting two or three likes as a response to ideas I share openheartedly, and endlessly comparing myself with everyone out there who seems to effortlessly create something.

Maybe this is the part nobody talks about.

Maybe being a writer isn’t about always having something brilliant to say.

Maybe it’s about sitting down even when you doubt yourself, even when nobody is waiting for your next sentence, even when the imaginary version of you is much more confident than the real one.

I don’t know if I’ll ever become the writer I imagined as a teenager.

But I know that girl with the old notebook and yellow pages would be incredibly proud that, after all these years, I’m still writing.

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