I Am a Writer: Owning the Title

We’ve all been there.

Someone asks us what we do, and we panic. We have a day job, but our heart is really invested in what we do AFTER the hours of nine to five. Someone asks how our writing is going, and we say “Oh, you know,” without giving any concrete information. We refer to ourselves as an “aspiring writer” or say we “write for fun.”

I get it. This was me for years.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer. I even knew I wanted to write novels. But that voice got into my head, the one that told me being a writer wasn’t a “real” job, at least not one I was likely to succeed well enough at to call it my career.

So I spent years earning degrees in an area I thought would serve me well, only to find once I graduated that the jobs available to me weren’t what I wanted, and the jobs I wanted weren’t available.

And all those years I’d been investing into these degrees, I’d been neglecting my writing, putting it on the back burner and telling myself I’d get back to it after I became a “grownup” and settled my real career. And yet, deep down, all I wanted to do was write.

It’s so easy for us to feel this way, like our writing needs to take a backseat to our careers, our families, our friends, or countless other things. And it’s far too easy for us to hide behind the term “aspiring writer.”

I’d never given that phrase much thought until about a year ago when I saw a post on social media encouraging writers to drop the “aspiring” part of that phrase. Because what did that mean to be an “aspiring writer” anyway? If we’re writing, even if it’s not consistently, even if it’s not as often or as much as we’d like, even if we know we could write better…as long as we’re writing, we’re writers. No qualifier needed.

The first time I ever called myself a writer, sans qualifier, was in graduate school. I was in my final semester of my mental health counseling degree, the one where I had a full course schedule, a twenty-five-hour per week unpaid internship, and a twenty-something-hour per week work schedule so I could just barely afford to eat and pay my rent. All of my energy was focused on finishing my degree, on that shining light at the end of the tunnel, and I had absolutely zero time to write anything other than my final thesis paper and clinical notes.

One night in class, we were asked to each share something we were currently struggling with. When my turn came, I said I was struggling with not having any time for my writing. “I’m a writer,” I began. “And it’s been hard for me not being able to write.”

The words were out of my mouth before I really considered them—I’ll blame the exhaustion of a graduate student schedule—and I immediately regretted them. Were my peers looking at me like I was some kind of prissy idiot who thought she was better than them because she sometimes, when she had a spare moment, wrote down made up stories? Did they think I was ridiculous claiming that title? Of course they did, I told myself. I wasn’t a real writer. I dabbled in writing, but I hadn’t even finished a full manuscript yet. I had no claim to the title of writer. That was reserved for those other people, the ones who were really writing.

For several years after that, I always added the qualifier. I went to a book signing for one of my favorite authors, and when he asked me what I did, I stumbled on my words. “Oh, well, I’m an office manager,” I said. “But I’m also an aspiring writer.” I had to add the qualifier, to make it clear my real job was sitting in an office all day. How could I possibly claim I was an actual writer when talking to this man who really was a writer? I’d seen his posts on social media. He had an office with a desktop computer and shelves full of books where he wrote every day. I barely had a desk set up. I wasn’t a writer. He was.

And yet, even our favorite authors didn’t always write full-time. The vast majority of published authors didn’t always write full-time. Many still hold day jobs even after their novels are published. But they all started somewhere.

And they were all writers the whole time.

So what scares us away from claiming the title of writer? What makes us stutter when our writing comes up in conversation and feel the need to add qualifiers?

The answer is likely slightly different for each of us, but my best guess is it all comes down to imposter’s syndrome.

Imposter’s syndrome is the feeling that we’re not good enough to do the thing we want to do, even if we’re already doing it. It plagues many people, not just writers, but it hits creatives hard. And I think one of the biggest reasons for this is because there’s no proof, no piece of paper, that tells us we have the right to do what we’re doing.

When I took a job in the mental health field, I didn’t feel like a fraud. After all, I had a diploma at home, a piece of paper that proved to others I’d done the work required to become a counselor. I had a right to be there. I’d put in my time. When a lawyer graduates and takes a job at a firm, they might have doubts about their abilities, but at the end of the day, there’s no question they’re a lawyer. They went to school. They passed the bar exam. No one could argue their right to call themselves a lawyer.

But with creatives, there are no prerequisites. Of course there are degrees we can pursue, but they aren’t a requirement to become a successful writer. Many successful authors never studied writing in any official capacity. And completion of a degree doesn’t guarantee a successful writing career either.

So what do you need to do in order to claim the title of writer? It’s pretty simple actually: you just need to write.

That’s it. There’s no additional requirement. If you write, whether it’s daily, weekly, or whenever you have time, you’re a writer. If you write but have no intentions of ever being published, you’re a writer. If you write but know you have a long way to go in perfecting the craft of writing, you’re still a writer.

And your writing is important. Whether or not anyone beyond you will ever read your writing, if it brings you joy and you’re drawn to creating stories, then it’s an important part of you. I’d argue it’s no less important than whatever job pays your bills. In fact, it might even be more important. Because writing might be the piece of you that truly makes your heart happy.

So why is it important to embrace the title of writer without any qualifiers? Because the way we speak to ourselves and about ourselves shapes what we believe about ourselves. Think about it: if you tell yourself you can’t cook, chances are, you’re not going to cook. You’re going to go on believing you’re a terrible cook and that’s just how it is, and you’ll live your life on boxed macaroni and cheese and takeout.

But if you tell yourself you’re a chef who is working on their skills, you’re more likely to try. You’ll seek out recipes and test out your skills in the kitchen, reminding yourself you’re learning and it’s okay to mess up.

The same goes for being a writer. Writing takes practice, time, and commitment, and it’s a craft we’re continually improving at. So what makes someone a writer? The act of writing. And by claiming that title as our own, by having the courage to stand up and say “I am a writer,” we validate ourselves. We give ourselves permission to write, to set goals for ourselves, and to work towards achieving those goals. By labeling ourselves as writers, we are empowering ourselves. You are a writer, and you deserve to claim that title.

My challenge to you is this: if you’ve listed the term “aspiring writer” anywhere on your social media, delete the qualifier. If you’re having a conversation with someone and your writing comes up, look them in the eye and tell them you’re a writer. Look yourself in the mirror this week and say, “I am a writer.” It might feel silly at first, but I promise you, once you begin thinking of yourself as a writer, not an aspiring writer, not a novice writer, not a wannabe writer, but a validated writer, you’ll feel empowered. And that empowerment will open up doors for you on your writing path that you may have left closed for too long.