I write and from what I’m told, that makes me a writer.

I’m still not entirely comfortable saying that. Because somewhere in my head, a real writer sits down at a desk with a cup of coffee, confidently types beautiful sentences, knows exactly where the story is going, and eventually sends a perfectly polished manuscript off into the world.

Meanwhile, I spend twenty minutes deciding whether someone should walk across a room or cross the room. Then I change it back.

Writing is a weird process. There are days when I read something I’ve written and think, Okay. This is actually pretty good. Sometimes I even get excited about it.

Then there are days when I open the exact same manuscript and wonder who gave me access to a keyboard.

The hardest part isn’t coming up with stories. I have plenty of those. My brain is a 24-hour fictional-story manufacturing facility.

The hard part is trusting myself enough to tell those stories the way they should be told.

I second-guess everything.

Is this scene boring?

Is the dialogue natural?

Am I describing too much? Not enough?

Is the pacing too slow? Too fast?

Why is everyone gazing?

Seriously. Stop gazing!

Then there are the spicy scenes. Which is a whole different level of insecurity.

Apparently, I am perfectly capable of sitting alone at my computer and writing two fictional adults doing things that would make my grandmother rise from the grave just to close my laptop.

I can write it. I can edit it. I can even sit there thinking, Damn…that was pretty good.

But then I remember that someday another person is going to read it, and suddenly I’m blushing at my own computer.

Which is ridiculous.

I MADE THESE PEOPLE.

I decided what they were going to do. I typed every single word. Yet, somehow, I’m embarrassed for anyone to find out what they did.

There’s also the terrifying possibility of someone I actually know reading it.

A stranger? Fine.

My husband? Okay.

A coworker? Nope

My mother?! Absolutely not!

PSA: If you know me personally and you ever read one of my books, I need you to understand that we will never discuss Chapter Whatever. We will maintain eye contact, pretend it doesn’t exist, and continue with our lives.

Thank you for your understanding.

Now, on to the really dangerous question:

Would anyone actually want to read this?

That one can stop me cold. Because writing something means eventually allowing someone else to read it. And once that happens, the little world that has existed safely inside my head isn’t mine anymore.

Someone can love it.

Someone can hate it.

Someone can shrug and say, “Eh. It was alright.”

To be honest, I’m not sure which one scares me more.

But I keep writing.

I rewrite scenes that aren’t working. I delete things I spent hours on. I move paragraphs around. I obsess over dialogue. I occasionally stare at the screen until the words lose all meaning. But every once in a while, something clicks.

A character says exactly what they were supposed to say and a scene finally feels right.

I read a paragraph and don’t immediately want to change it.

Those are the moments that keep me going.

Maybe confidence doesn’t come before you become a writer.

Maybe you become a writer because you keep writing while a tiny voice in the back of your head keeps asking whether you have any business doing this.

I still don’t know if my writing is good.

I hope it is. But I’m starting to think maybe I don’t have to know yet.

I just have to keep writing.