I was a writer once.

I used to wake up in the night, and scribble half-baked thoughts on any random surface my pen could find. In the margins of my notebooks, on my homework, old receipts, even my bed sheets a time or two.

But, now I don’t know what I am.

Every dim spark of an idea fades as quickly as it arrived. Most nights I don’t sleep. Every time I touch my notebook there’s an uneasy feeling that I've pinned as a mix of indigestion and anxiety.

It’s been months. I’m even having trouble with cover letters. How am I to introduce myself to a potential employer, when I feel as though I've lost part of myself?

I was a writer once.

It started when I was 13 years-old. I was going to be the best murder-mystery writer the world ever knew. My novel was hidden in the back pages of my humanities notebook. That project took precedent over everything. I would write in it everyday after I rushed through my assigned homework. I’d pass it around in homeroom, and by 7th period Spanish I was working on revisions.

A project of passion.

More than 100-handwritten pages later, a girl claimed to have misplaced it.

It was gone. My characters, my words, my time. All gone.

And so was a week of already completed homework.

I cried. I was angry. Then I moved on.

I refused to rewrite the story. I concluded that any attempt would be a cheap imitation. I moved on to short stories, poems and blogging.

I decided the first time I passed my notebook around that I was a writer.

The hell does a 13 year-old know about picking a career?

No more than a 17 year-old apparently.

When it came time to pick a major I referenced people I admired, things that inspired me and the familiarity of writing. That boiled down to Jon Stewart, a commercial with a singing puppy and my personal affinity for volunteer work.

I still find it amusing that a singing puppy helped me pick a career path.

A public relations/communications professional at a company with a similar commitment to social activism was the dream.

Now I’m an unemployed college graduate with a bachelor’s degree in journalism.

And I can’t write. I don’t write.

I spend my days rifling through incredibly boring job posts, creeping on potential networking contacts on social media, researching companies with the least boring job posts/titles and obsessing over the books that compose the Song of Fire and Ice.

I write and rewrite cover letters that go unacknowledged. Reformat my resume half a dozen times a week. Check my LinkedIn account. And then I stare at my notebook.

It mocks me.

Everything I attempt is wrong. Too technical, too informal, too personal, too negative and somethings are just plain dumb.

The inspired reads as pretentious. The uninspired is boring, as to be expected. And, more ideas die on my fingertips.

I’m cautious where I was once bold; scared where I was once eager.

Maybe I’m not a writer anymore, maybe I've finally evolved into a mathematician…Or an engineer, maybe? But, those were careers I scratched off my list years ago.

Maybe I’m headed for completely new territory, like a chef or a panhandler? But cooking gave me a second-degree burn that left a scar so bad most people can’t believe it came from a lasagna, and I’m not made to brave the elements or society’s scorn.

I can be anything I want. With time and effort.
I choose to be a writer, again.

I’ve never been a particularly great writer. I use too many commas. My writing process includes large chunks of procrastination, frustration and stress. And, other things.

I didn't pick my major because I was a natural. If that were the case, I’d be up to my elbows in numbers and bored out of my mind.

Words can take you places, both figuratively and literally. It can paint a picture, evoke emotions and educate. Words are how we share our stories with one another, and writing them down preserves those words.

Engaging, educating, impacting and on occasion entertaining, are why I enjoy writing.