TO THE ONE WHO THOUGHT THEY’D BE A WRITER BY NOW

Dear You,

You thought it would’ve happened by now.

You thought you’d have a book—maybe not a bestseller, but something with your name printed on it. Something real. A spine. A dedication page. Maybe a small cult following on Goodreads.

You thought the words you wrote in your journal, in the margins of dental notes, in scraps of WhatsApp chats, would amount to something more solid by now. Something established.
But here you are.
Living in the parentheses.
Surrounded by half-done projects, open tabs, and stories you don’t feel brave enough to finish.

It’s okay.
I’m not here to push you.
I’m just here to sit with you in the “not yet.”

Because me too.
Everything in my life feels half-baked, like batter waiting on heat.
An e-book unopened.
A blog with five drafts and no posts.
A dream deferred because real life needs dinner and deadlines and someone to reply to that email with “Kind regards.”

But I still believe in you.
Not because of what you’ve published—but because of how you see.
Because you notice the quiet things. The ache behind a sentence. The way some people speak in ellipses and others in punctuation marks.
Because you feel everything like it’s your job.
And maybe it is.

Writing is a long, strange becoming.
It rarely feels like success.
It mostly feels like returning. Sitting with yourself. Listening. Starting again.

So no—maybe you’re not “a writer” in the polished, podcast-interview, book-tour way.
But you’re writing.
Even when you feel like a ghost in your own pages.
Even when you think no one sees you.

I do.

And I’m rooting for you.
Not the polished, perfect version.
You. Half-baked. Becoming. Trying again.

With softness,
Meestique.
The Empathic Social Observer.