Summary

The author grapples with the personal identity of being a writer, despite having written extensively, due to a lack of formal validation and the vulnerability associated with publishing.

Abstract

The article delves into the author's internal struggle with self-identifying as a writer, despite engaging in the act of writing across various forms and contexts. The author reflects on other identities that are either innate or validated by official documentation, contrasting these with the absence of a formal "writer's license." The piece explores the author's deep appreciation for language, the joy derived from writing, and the fear of public judgment that comes with publishing. It concludes with the author acknowledging the need to embrace the writer identity, recognizing that self-acknowledgment is crucial for growth and acceptance in the writing community.

Opinions

The author feels that one must be born into an identity or have formal documentation to confidently claim it, which is why they struggle with calling themselves a writer.
Despite not having a degree in English or a "writer's license," the author believes their love for language, enjoyment of writing, and the effort put into crafting emails and stories should validate their identity as a writer.
The author suggests that new writers, especially those who are beginning to publish their work, are particularly vulnerable to criticism and may hesitate to identify as writers to cushion the impact of negative feedback.
The article posits that embracing the identity of a writer is essential for personal development in writing, and that hiding behind the excuse of not being a "real writer" hinders improvement.
The author emphasizes the importance of the heart accepting what the head already knows – that the act of writing is what truly makes one a writer.

Of All the Identities I Wear in Life, Calling Myself a Writer Has Been One of the Hardest

I write, therefore I am a writer

Photo by Barthelemy de Mazenod on Unsplash

Of all the identities I wear in life, calling myself a writer has been one of the hardest for me to feel comfortable in.

You’d think it would be simple.

A writer is, according to Merriam-Webster, “someone who has written something.”

I’ve definitely written many things. Journal upon journal documenting the dramas of high school. A couple of decades' worth of emails ranging from long-distance friendships to corporate business talk. Formal and dry, soul-sucking technical reports and investment proposals.

I would love to confidently shout out to the world, “I am a writer!”

But I harbor this inner doubt. A hesitancy. That fear. As if the world is going to shout back at me, “No you’re not!”

And because of this feeling, I’ve gotten really good at dodging and sidestepping those four words.

I’ll say, “I’m trying my hand at writing” or “I’m beginning to dabble in writing.” I’ll duck out with, “I’m just starting out in my writing journey” or “I’m working on finding my voice as a writer.” I’ll even stretch so far as to say, “I enjoy writing.”

I rationally know that I’m dancing around the phrase “I am a writer” in such a way that only a writer could. From the wordsmithing to the pondering of nuances, these are not tactics a non-writer could so easily employ.

I did some soul searching into why I struggle to identify as a writer. In my internal conversations with myself, I considered the other identities that I feel I can confidently own up to.

There are the identities that I feel like I was born into.

I confidently identify as Canadian. I was born and raised in Canada. I say “eh”, I’m quite familiar with snow, and I’ve got a favorite hockey team. My birth certificate says I was born here and I hold a Canadian passport.

I confidently identify as Asian. It’s in my bloodline and my DNA says it is so. I speak Chinese and, when I’m handed forms about my ethnicity, I check off “visible minority”.

There are the identities that I feel like I’ve earned.

I confidently identify as an engineer. I spent four grueling years in university to earn that identity, and I’ve got an important-looking piece of paper called a degree that tells me I’m an engineer. I spent another decade working as an engineer to further break that identity in, till it’s as comfortable as an old trusty pair of jeans.

I confidently identify as a pianist. I started playing the piano when I was five years old and I don’t remember life without the piano. There are no degrees offered to amateur pianists, but I have awards and certificates to fill my need for important-looking pieces of paper to convince me I’m legit.

There are the identities that life has brought me into.

I confidently identify as a wife. I have a husband by my side and rather distinct memories of a wedding and saying, “I do” in front of family and friends. To boot, I also have a marriage certificate that declares us so.

I confidently identify as a dog mom. I have a dog, and I consider myself her mom. I feed her, I’ve raised her, I play with her, I’ve trained her. I even occasionally have to wipe her butt. And I actually do have a piece of paper that registers me as her primary owner.

What do these six identities have in common?

Apparently, for me to feel confident in wearing an identity, I need to either have been born into it or possess a piece of importantly-looking paper for validation.

Well, I wasn’t born a writer and I didn’t major in English in university.

For better or worse, there’s no writer’s license that I can take an exam for in exchange for a piece of paper. Wouldn’t it be great if the powers that be swooped in after your 100th story and bestowed upon you this prized title as a writer?

How am I going to convince myself that I’m truly a writer and not just someone who occasionally writes?

When I come across a striking sentence that I find beautiful, I pause to savor it, like a sip of fine wine.

I have a love for the written language. Puns delight me and I adore witty exchanges. I’ve downloaded an embarrassing number of word games on my phone, and no one in my family will play Scrabble or Bananagrams with me anymore.

I’ve been an avid reader my entire life and I keep a handwritten list of all the books I’ve ever read since 2000. When I come across a striking sentence that I find beautiful, I pause to savor it, like a sip of fine wine.

Long before I sat down to write with the intent of publishing, I was spending an excessive amount of time wordsmithing even the banalest of work emails. The recipients of my emails didn’t care but I cared and, as the first audience to my own writing, that mattered to me.

Shouldn’t all these things be enough for me to confidently claim my identity as a writer?

I don’t think I’m alone in grappling with this identity as a writer.

New writers are inherently vulnerable. Or rather, perhaps I should say new publishing writers are inherently vulnerable.

We’re leaving the safety of our own personal diaries and are putting our thoughts and words out for the world to see and judge. It’s scary.

By not acknowledging ourselves as writers, it gives us a fallback when the criticism hits. It gives us a back door to slip out of by saying, “Oh, I’m not a real writer anyways.”

It’s easier to say, “I’m not a real writer” than to admit, “I’m not a good writer.”

The trouble with this mentality is that we can’t improve our writing if we’ve constantly got one foot out the back door.

So, am I a writer?

This is a question that Google cannot answer for me. Nor can those silly, “Are you a writer?” quizzes or “You know you’re a writer if you have these five traits” lists.

This is a conversion between my head and my heart. My head already knows the answer but my heart is afraid. But I think it’s time for my heart to be brave and come along on this writing journey.

Because I am a writer.