The first story I ever wrote was in Primary 5, when I was 10 years old.
I wrote it in an exercise book, and every one of my friends read it. They would pass it around, reminding me not to continue without bringing it along the next day. I don’t know where that book is now—whether I lost it or someone took it, but I still remember the story. It’s one I intend to write again someday.
When I think about that story, the nature of it, and the scenes I created, I often wonder where it all came from. I try not to talk about it much because most people wouldn’t believe that a ten-year-old could write something like that. But I remember how much I loved writing it. What made me happiest was knowing that the next morning, my classmates would ask for the story. They enjoyed it, complimented me, and encouraged me to continue.
The desire to become a writer has always been my dream, though it’s one I never fully nourished. As an adult, I now understand that those who discouraged me from pursuing writing as a career meant well. They’d point out how hard it is to make a living as a writer, citing examples such as my favourite Ghanaian author, Ama Ata Aidoo, and urged me to focus on something “secure,” like becoming a doctor or nurse, with writing as a side passion.
So that’s what I’ve done: I’ve written on the side for many years. But in recent years, I’ve written less and less. I have wonderful friends who ask me when I’ll publish my first book because they trust my writing so deeply. Oftentimes, I don’t know what to say. Being a “writer on the side” is hard; it is even harder when you barely have time to write at all.
For a long time, I’ve felt lost and empty—a kind of emptiness that’s hard to describe. It feels like yearning deeply for something just out of reach.
I have hundreds, truly, hundreds of unfinished poems and stories scattered across my laptops, phones, journals, diaries, and loose sheets of paper. I have characters who speak to me, whose stories I can see so clearly—their triumphs, their struggles. Sometimes, I’ve cried actual tears of joy and sorrow for them because I feel everything they go through so deeply.
For as long as I can remember, writing has been my greatest desire. I listen to people, I eavesdrop, and the universe gives me stories through friends, foes, and strangers whose presence fills missing pieces in tales I’ve been carrying for years.
But I often feel overwhelmed. I’m constantly questioning myself: Which story should I write? Do I know enough English? Is my grammar good enough? My vocabulary? Will anyone even want to read my work when we’re all scrolling endlessly together?
What’s the point? What am I trying to say?
I am a writer. Simply that.
I see others sharing their art, and I ask myself, Why can’t I? And then I realize I don’t make time to write. I’m too scared to share what I do write. I doubt my talent. The list goes on.
But still, I am a writer. And today, I choose not to overthink whether I should post this or not; I’ll just do it.
Once again, I am a writer. I write poetry and stories. I look forward to sharing my work with all
