The problem with having too many hobbies is that they all require practice. And if you’re stretched for time and feel like you’re running a marathon just getting things done every day, it can seem impossible.

I have a lot of hobbies. I like to write, bake, take photos, blog, scrapbook, do other arts and crafts, and the most recent one, do brush lettering. These all require time. Sometimes I get so consumed with one of them, that I forget about the others. That is until I go to do it again and realise how rusty I am.

For example, I made these AMAZING Nutella brownies the other day (recipe coming soon!). The brownies were smashing and I wanted to eat them all. I also wanted to convey how good they were through my photos. But once I picked up my DSLR camera, it was like I was holding it for the first time. F stop what? I had no clue.

The thing with photography is that I never really got the swing of it to begin with. After I got my DSLR in November last year, I tried to study how to use it by reading lots of tutorials on aperture, ISO, and shutter speed. I was and still am a beginner. But after months of not touching the thing, it’s like I’m back to the way I was before I was a beginner. I think I eventually got the shot…but barely.

The same goes for writing. Writing takes a lot of practice and it used to be something I do everyday. And in a sense, I still kind of do it. But a different kind.

My writing for The Muslim Girl has pretty much taken up my whole life, so much to the point that I don’t get to write for me anymore. And I miss it so much. My soul cries out for it.

But it’s like I’ve forgotten how. I can’t seem to remember how to pair words together beautifully so that they become poetry. I can’t seem to remember what similes or metaphors are. I can’t seem to remember how to express my emotions into words that express the turmoil I feel about this. I can’t seem to remember how to write.

Not only can’t I write, my brain is completely empty. It was once teeming with ideas, bursting at the seems with stories and phrases and ideas that danced their way to my fingertips until they were finally released onto the page. But now, nothing. It’s like there’s a drought inside of me and I don’t know how to water it.

It’s to know what to say when you feel like the only thing you’re good at disappears. And not because of anyone else, but because you chose not to nurture it. So am I still a writer if I don’t write?

I don’t know.