Gabriela Camacho, Writer.

An editor I used to work with at In Style, and I, were talking about bylines one day and she said something that seemed so simple yet so true. She said, “There’s nothing like seeing your name in print. No matter how small or big the article.” I get a nervous, yet excited feeling every time I see my name printed in a magazine. It makes me feel “official.” It makes me feel proud.

The first byline credit I ever got was for a small Latin publication. More than the article itself, I felt more accomplished at seeing my name in black-and-white on that page. I had reached a goal. And in that moment, I couldn’t help but think of my maternal grandmother, my abuelita Estefana. She was a writer, and a good one at that. She wrote various articles and even a song that was eventually recorded with her permission. She was over seventy-years-old at that point! As I held that magazine in my hand for a few moments with my eyes glued to my name, I dedicated that achievement to my grandmother. She had since passed, but I knew she would be as proud of me as if it had been her own.



In the recent months, I’ve written and reported for various magazines but I knew at least one of them would be out this month. As I picked up the copy of Tu Ciudad with the “Hip, Hot, Now” cover, I flipped to page 42 and there, again, in black-and-white was my name staring back at me. Another goal reached. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. I picked up two copies and walked around the store feeling a little taller.




I know I was pushing my luck when I went to find Nick Magazine, another book I had recently reported for. Yet I was equally excited and surprised to see that I had another byline in another issue! I can’t begin to describe the feeling as I carried those magazines around the store. I wanted to buy a copy for everyone I saw!

As I went to the cash register to pay, I fought every urge to tell the cashier, “My name’s in here!” for fear of getting that “You’re kooky,” look back at me. But there was a part of me that wanted to ask where I thought my magazine signing table would look best as I signed copies of the magazines in the store. I mean, after all, I am a published writer.

But I didn’t. I just walked back to my car carrying my accomplishments and realizing, once again, that it’s official. I’m a writer. And I know my abuelita is looking down on me just as proud.