I was today years old when I found out I was never a content writer.

Meanwhile, I wrote a lot while growing up.

I scribbled my own portion of poetry lines and fiction tales.

For a long time, I wrote down my thoughts as prose and songs.

But I never felt like a true writer.

So, I read books. I took writing courses and I learnt what I was lacking.

A writer must have a structure and voice and style.

But my writing structure was as formless as an omelette.

Each time my vocabulary improved, I felt my writing structure expand like the liquid consistency of a raw egg.

And my writing voice? I came to suspect it’s sarcastic.

That’s good ( you’d think).

But, my sarcasm I fear is not the kind that tickles.  It is the type that bites.

Again, and again.

“Who is a writer?” I ask.

I do not ask the wind, for it is silent. I ask you. Do these thoughts wander in your mind like raw egg in a greased pan? Or is it just me..?

Let writing either cling to me or leave me be.

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