I met a woman recently who is an established academic in her field. Someone introduced me to her as a writer. In that moment, I wanted to correct them and say I wasn't one. The woman told me she wasn't a writer. Even though she had written a few novels forty years ago. Recently, while thinking about what she wanted to do next, she pulled them out and shared them with her niece, who said, "These are actually pretty good, Aunty." The funny thing is, I said to her, “So, you are a writer.” To me, she was forty years ago, and she still is today.

Only after the conversation did it dawn on me my slight discomfort at being introduced came from the fact I haven't always seen myself that way. I was (am?) a researcher,  a reformed academic, a Blogger, heck, a book reviewer. But not a writer. Even as a blogger, when I was invited to write features for several platforms, I saw it as being given a space to share my love of books. Same when I was invited to write book reviews. 

Some reviews and listicles during my blogging era. Source: bookshy

I still didn’t believe it when I was invited to contribute essays to anthologies. Or when I sent my first ever pitch to another anthology and it was accepted. Still denied it when I saw my name and piece in the book. I naively thought, since I didn’t write poetry or fiction, and couldn’t create new worlds and characters, I couldn’t be called a writer. I didn't know creative non-fiction was even a thing. Plus, there was no way those journal articles, long dry reports, policy briefs, blog posts on findings from one research study or another I did for work counted.

    

Yes, I know, I know! It’s kinda silly that I stood next to this academic, saying she was a writer, when I have only recently been able to say those words out loud to myself (and others). Even now, sometimes (okay, most times), I still feel like I am at the very start of my writing practice. But looking back, my writing journey began far earlier than I realised.

I remember a handwritten story, with artwork, I wanted to send to K-TV (M-Net's kids' channel) for some writing competition advertised on TV. I'm not sure if one of my parents ever posted it. Part of me wouldn't be surprised if it never made it all the way from Lagos to wherever DSTV's HQ was in South Africa, especially in the 90s. But I also have very vague recollection, many, many moons later of getting a very nice letter saying my piece wasn't selected. So, I want to believe hearing back from them isn't a dream memory. Even then, I didn't see myself as a writer. Just a little girl who liked to draw and put some words next to the drawings.

I still have no idea where this journey will take me, but I’m going to keep trusting the process, the way I always have with everything I do.