I’m Writing A Book In 90 Days

(written on June 17, 2025)

I’ve been writing for longer than I can remember. If I’m counting the poems and song lyrics I wrote in my diary when my age was still in the single digits, then I can honestly say that I’ve been writing for most of my human existence.

However, admitting that I write, and stepping into my role or identity as a ‘writer’ has been a fairly new experience. An expansion of my writing, one might say, because with this admission comes a whole new level of freedom.

Of creativity. Of possibilities. Of responsibility.

The responsibility to write.

“If you have the ability then you have the responsibility. If you can then you must.” — Evan Carmichael

If I’m being completely honest, I’ve always thought of my ability to write a fluke.

As some stroke of luck.

“Surely, everyone can write. Surely it’s not as difficult as others make it out to be. They’re probably making self-deprecating comments, downplaying their skills as a way of fishing for some praise, or blowing smoke up my ass because they don’t know what else to say”, is what I’d think anytime I’d get compliments about my writing.

Compliments that I would have a hard time accepting.

Compliments that I would have a hard time believing.

Because I never felt like I earned them.

Because there are things a writer ‘should’ be — and do — otherwise they simply cannotbe considered a ‘writer’. Otherwise they’re a fraud.

And that’s what I’ve felt like. A fraud.

An imposter. Walking around wearing the title of ‘writer’, with no real sense of what a writer should be.

And so, to wash my hands clean of that internal mess of feeling like an imposter, I would avoid the topic altogether.

But with time, the writer in me grew restless.

With time, the writer in me was itching for release.

For their moment in the spotlight of my life; at the forefront of my time, attention, and energy. To be acknowledged. To be nurtured.

To simply be.

One of my intentions for the year has been to write more, which I have been doing. But it wasn’t until I came across a writing challenge that I felt I could be doing more. Not more per se, but rather, I could be doing better. In how I wrote. In what I wrote. In why I wrote.

So I’m writing a book in 90 days because I want to. I’ve had the ideas, themes, plot twists, characters, and purpose for years. Scribbled on sticky notes. Written down in my journals. Tucked away in the depths of my phone’s Notes app. I’ve been wanting to. I still want to.

I’m writing a book in 90 days because I want the extra push of the discipline, accountability, and commitment. I’ve learned enough about myself as both a person and a writer over the years to know how to navigate the territory. When to push and when to loosen the reigns. When to ebb and when to flow. To trust that ‘when I walk, the way will appear’ (— Rumi).

I’m writing a book in 90 days because my birthday is in 90 days. I want to finish the first draft—the diamond-in-the-rough version—by September, as a gift to myself. Maybe even the gift of a lifetime.

Compelled by a sense of duty to honor my intention. Compelled by a sense of duty to myself.

A vow to the little girl who poured her heart and soul into her diary, because it was the only place she felt safe to do so. The little girl who hid those pages with care, terrified they might fall into the wrong hands. Terrified of being exposed, criticized, judged, or shamed. Terrified the contents of her heart, her soul, her mind, were too much. Terrified of being vulnerable, as if it were the worst possible thing that could ever befall her.

When in fact, it’s the most beautiful, powerful, and thrilling experience.

Because you come to realize that you’re not in it alone. You’re not in this world alone.

And so, I’m writing a book in 90 days.

Because I can, and so I must.