I Wrote for Fifty Years Without Calling Myself a Writer
Fifty Years Before I Called It Writing
Author’s Note: This first appeared as a blog post a few years ago, but I’ve renovated it, leaving its original sentiment intact.
Why did it take me half a century to pick up the pen again?
Funny you should ask.
Writing isn’t new to me. I’ve scribbled something almost every day of my life:
grocery lists
to-do and not-to-do lists
diary entries
poems that almost got away
essays, reports, dissertations, résumés, apologies
So yes, I’ve always written. The real question isn’t why write now?
It’s why did it take me so long to call it writing?
Writer’s Block or Just Fear in Fancy Clothes?
I never really had writer’s block. Procrastination, absolutely.
But the bigger culprits were two old habits: work-before-pleasure, and fear.
Writing has always been my version of dessert—the sweet part of the day I kept saving for “later.”
When I graduated high school, I got my own apartment right away. Freedom at last, or so I thought.
Instead, I doubled down on being “responsible.” Chores first, always.
One day, my father stopped by for a surprise visit. I was, of course, in the middle of washing dishes.
He untied my apron, led me to the tiny kitchen table, and set out napkins, a thermos of coffee, and my favorite iced raisin cookies.
“I need to finish the dishes,” I said.
“You need to eat dessert first,” he told me. “Life’s too short.”
His words moved me. They still do. But it took years before I lived by them.
Now, more often than not, I skip to the sweet part.
I write.
The Two Fears
Fear of Success
Someone once told me my size didn’t fit anything—including success.
My mother. She was proud of my writing, but convinced I was too fat to ever go far.
So when teachers and professors praised my work, I didn’t believe them.
It took decades to unlearn that lie—assuming it’s truly been unlearned.
Self-doubt can be such a clingy shadow.
Fear of Completion
This one I taught myself. If perfection is the goal, finishing anything means … the end.
My lifelong philosophy has always circled the idea that I’m here to seek perfection—not the shiny-object kind, but a deeper understanding of life and purpose.
I figured if I ever reached that understanding—that state of perfection—what then? The end? No thanks.
But I’ve made peace with endings. A finished thing isn’t a tombstone; it’s a milestone.
Progress (At Last)
These days, I still wash the dishes before I write—but I get to the writing.
Life remains a work in progress, and I’ve decided to write my way through it.
My first fiction in fifty years was a novella about a girl and her dog—search-and-rescue stuff.
29,783 words, 102 days. Messy. Flawed. Completely mine.
Starwoven: Hear My Call was an unintended follow-up—born from momentum rather than a plan.
Still messy. Still mine. Proof I was growing.
If I can do it, you can too.
But you already knew that.
What’s the thing you keep shelving behind “responsible” tasks—the project you secretly want to touch first?