Lately I have been thinking about becoming a writer again. I use the words “writer” and “again” very loosely because even with the biggest stretch of these words I am still wondering “Am I really a writer?”

This is an important question because in my profile I very much identify myself as one. Even though according to the online definition “a person who writes books or articles to be published” I most certainly have no right to identify as such.

I have never really finished a book and ignoring the very short stint I had at university as a political/social columnist I have never written any articles to be published.

I, however, in my hearts of hearts (and on any other social media platform) claim to be a writer. I do this because writing is the title that feels most natural to me. I have identified as some sort of writer since I won my first poetry competition at 8 years old. I continued to call myself a poet until I was 12 when I after winning an essay competition I decided that the term “writer” suited me a bit more since I was obviously a writing marvel capable of moving from medium to medium.

Over the past few years though, since moving to London, I have found that this title that I so loved and bestowed upon myself is slipping further and further away from me. I am writing less. I am thinking about writing less. I have neglected the very thing that brings me the most joy, peace and sense of accomplishment because whether I am published or not I always feel as though I have eaten a full meal when I place that last full stop on any original piece of writing.

And so a gift I am giving myself for my 35th birthday (in January 2025) is a return to the page. A return to writing. A return to my most comfortable identity. A return to being a writer, again.