Writer’s Note: I was spurred to write these words during a writing assignment in a writing class that I’m taking up to write a memoir. I just used “write” three times in one sentence, which you may have noticed. The purpose of this writing is to reach out to other writers who may not always “feel up” to the act of writing, both a joy and nuisance. I hope I have provided enough background for what you are about to read.

These in-class writing exercises aren’t getting easier. Is this a place where I am supposed to find inspiration for my work? I’m not a writer until I have written something that’s published right because isn’t that how it works? In this classroom of nine and teacher of one, I am surrounded by strangers who are supposed to hear me confess thoughts that I have yet to tell my own mother. I suspect I am around people who don’t like writing either.

When I declared this loud, the instructor understood. She quoted another writer named F. Scott Fitzgerald who said: “I hate to write but I love to have written.”

This is partly why I resist writing. I resist writing because I don’t have the skills to say what I want to say in the way I want to say it when I have something to say. You’ll understand.

I feel like an imposter. I have a journalism education and over the years amassed more than five internships and fellowships before graduating college in 2013. I have traveled to seven countries since then–lived in two–and four of which I visited this year. This year isn’t over yet.

Even when I write the words I am an imposter, I don’t really believe myself. I am not. I say things that aren’t true. I say I don’t write but that’s not true. I say I like the act of writing more than writing itself, but that’s not always true. I may be up to the idea of Jil reading my work aloud in class. If you are a writer, too, ask another writer to read your work aloud.

As I am writing this in my notepad supplied by the company I am taking this class with, I notice the line at the bottom of every page that says “don’t forget to write.” Okay.

On the page is a hairy, brown rope short enough to wrap around my neck once in the position of where it has fallen on the blank canvas, or in the middle of this white page. There’s a slight curve sort of like the outline of a shoe I’ve drawn several times as a child who tried to draw several times while being a child. The drawings were goofy–one foot always bigger than the other. The criticism I have for my work is not only limited to writing. I always thought of myself as a shitty drawer. So it turns out this writing exercise isn’t just about a rope of my page, but about my resistance as a writer. I am a writer and I am self-critical.

I am a writer. I have always been one.