Dressed in a gray baggy sweater and faded blue jeans, I slouch on the couch and cross my legs. She asks me what I like to do. My answer is automatic. “I write.”

“Oh! What are you writing now?”

My mouth opens and my brain scrambles to find words to usher out. “Nothing. I-, I haven’t written in a while. Life is just so busy. There’s no time for it.”

“So, that means there is no time for you.”

I swallow past the pride that is stuck in my throat. Shame fills me and I feel like a fraud. Not only had it been years since I got published but I rarely did any meaningful writing. Writing that meant something to me.

Since I was four years old, I knew what I wanted to be. Who I was. It’s simple. I am a writer. So . . . my brain scrunches up to match my face, why aren’t I writing?

A copy of a new age magazine lays closed on the coffee table. Smiling, I admit, “I had an essay published in that magazine once.”

“That’s great! Have you had anything else published?”

“Yeah. Some poetry. Short stories. But that was a while ago.”

“Because you haven’t been writing?”

A grimace accompanies my nod as sadness wells in my heart.

“Do you enjoy writing? For pleasure?”

I sit up straight as I feel a spark in my belly. “Oh, yeah. It’s my passion.”

“So, it’s not just about getting published or making a career out of it.”

It’s more of a statement than a question, but I answer anyway. “I just love to write. It . . . fills me.”

Her face expresses compassion. Or is it pity? “Then you must be feeling very empty now.”

I feel crushed under the truth and my lids close to hide my eyes. My head bobs up and down in slow motion. I realize I am completely lost in my own life story. My character still undeveloped, cheated out of adventures, stunted without a journey. I am a story that can’t be completed without the author. Without me.

I didn’t want to ignore my dreams anymore. It wasn’t fair to me or anybody else who might enjoy reading my work one day. And as timid as I was, I followed her advice. I made the decision to find a local writer’s group.

Showing up that day was more terrifying than any writing class I had attended. I was used to classrooms. I have a bachelor’s degree in English and a master’s degree in literature and participated in many writing groups. But it had been so long, I felt uncertain.

Imposter Syndrome kept me on the other side of the door until the last minute. With a deep breath, I pulled it open and found my way to the small group. And, I admit, it felt good to be with other writers, and it felt great to be writing again.

The next time I met with my counselor, she commented on my wardrobe. “I like your dress. Purple. Exudes royalty. Confidence. It’s a big change from what you were wearing last time I saw you.”

I grinned, surprised. I hadn’t even recognized the change in myself. But she was right. I wasn’t feeling like a failure anymore. I was being me again. I was writing.

But not with the group. Not anymore. I stopped going. Not because I had become lost again. I just wasn’t getting what I needed. It was toxic positivity and no real connection. Online groups are crowded, rendering you invisible. And too much free help is no help at all.

That’s why I created The Write Author with its own personal community. Vetted membership, personal attention, focus where it’s needed when it’s needed.

What do you say, wordsmith? Your story is waiting. Your sword is ready. Let's forge your future—together.