Why I can’t say ‘I’m a writer’ without hesitating

Photo by Frank Flores on Unsplash

“So, what do you do?”

The question hung in the air after the casual coffee order. My mind, as it had for months since the layoff, went blank. Not for lack of an answer—I’ve written professionally for 20 years. I have a children’s picture book coming out (proper announcement coming up!). I spend my days writing.

Yet the simple, declarative sentence “I’m a writer” lodged in my throat. What came out instead was a mumbled, “I write—books, articles, whatever needs words.”

Why does that simple sentence stick in my throat, and what does it say about who we think gets to be a ‘writer’?

The weight of the “wow” factor

When I do manage to overcome the hesitation and say, “I’m a writer,” the response is often a polite but loaded “Wow,” or the inevitable, “Your English must be very good.” While meant as a compliment, these reactions only add another layer of pressure.

They create an immediate, inflated standard. They imply that “writer” means perfection, effortless fluency, and singular brilliance—an image of a master wordsmith. It makes the identity feel like a pedestal, and I know too well that my reality is messy drafts, deleted paragraphs, and the need to check a thesaurus.

The inner critic instantly shouts back: You are not that “wow.” You are adequate, at best. There are a hundred writers better than you publishing today. The romantic ideal of a ‘Writer’ feels completely disconnected from my daily grind.

The voices that say you’re not enough

Here’s what runs through my head on the days when I can’t bring myself to say “I’m a writer”:

You get tired of writing some days. Real writers are passionate all the time.

You haven’t published enough. One picture book deal doesn’t make you an actual author.

You started in beauty journalism and corporate content. You’re not a “real” literary writer.

You’re not making a living from your creative work. You’re just... trying.

You’re writing romance under a pen name and kidlit under another—who do you think you are, balancing two genres that couldn’t be further apart?

Jane Austen, J.R.R. Tolkien, Kazuo Ishiguro, Balli Kaur Jaswal—they're writers. How can you call yourself the same thing?

The internal jury is always deliberating, and most days, the verdict is: I am not writer enough.

The unconventional path problem

I never looked at my engineering diploma and thought, ‘This is training for a writing career.’ At the time, it was just my diploma. But looking back, every role—engineering, beauty journalism, corporate content marketing—taught me skills I use as a writer today.

For years, I introduced myself as a “content editor” because that felt safe—specific, provable, not too ambitious. When I started writing children’s books and romance novels, the imposter syndrome intensified. Who was I to claim I could write fiction when my background was product reviews, celebrity interviews and recruitment content marketing?

Validation from former editors and mentors helped me see writing is writing. The skills transfer. The craft evolves.

I’m learning that this unconventional path isn’t a liability; it’s my unique advantage. Every piece of experience is raw material that fuels my stories. In What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Haruki Murakami has said that the real education for his novels came not from a writing programme, but from the years he spent running a jazz bar, dealing with people and accounts. That tells me that a writer doesn’t have to be one thing.

My engineering training taught me logical structure, my beauty journalism taught me sensory detail, and my corporate work taught me to write for a specific audience—all skills I use every day. My multiple pen names and genres aren’t a sign of an identity crisis; they’re more likely just reflections of a multifaceted life.

Yet the inner voice murmurs: You’re not the traditional kind of writer. Are you sure you belong? Will anyone buy your books?

The days when writing feels like work

Here’s something nobody tells you: even writers get tired of writing.

On those heavy days, I stare at the cursor, my teh c siew dai growing lukewarm—a tangible measure of time slipping away. The imposter syndrome screams loudest then: ‘A real writer wouldn’t feel this dread.’

Some days, I sit down to work on a manuscript and feel nothing.

No excitement, no flow, just the slog of moving words around. Other times, I’d rather organise my tote bag drawer than face a blank page. Then there are the days when I question every sentence and wonder if I have anything worth saying.

The doubt grows louder: If you were a real writer, you’d love this. If you were a real writer, the words would come easily. If you were a real writer, you wouldn’t feel like giving up.

On those days, I find solace in writing advice from celebrated writers. As Anne Lamott advises in Bird by Bird: show up at the same time every day, sit down, and stare at the blank page if you must. The point isn’t inspiration—it’s training your unconscious to kick in. Some days you rock back and forth, staring at the ceiling. That’s still writing.

Here’s what I’m learning: fatigue with writing doesn’t disqualify me. It makes me human.

When does a writer become a writer?

I’ve reflected on this since my layoff. Without my job title, what remains? If I’m no longer “Senior Content Editor,” who am I?

The answer, I’m realising, isn’t about confidence or credentials or perfect discipline. It’s simpler than that: A writer is someone who writes.

Not someone who always loves writing. Not someone who never doubts themselves. Not someone with a specific degree or publishing history or income level.

Just someone who keeps showing up to write.

I show up even on days when I feel like a fraud. I show up even when the words come slowly. I show up when I’m tired, when I’m uncertain, when I wonder if anyone will care. I show up with my unconventional background, multiple pen names, and messy, non-linear career path.

At the end of each day, I have a ritual that anchors me: setting a 20-minute timer to write without interruption. I’ve found that 20 minutes is a sweet spot—15 minutes feels too short to get immersed, while 30 minutes can feel overwhelming on tough days.

Some days, I end up writing far longer than 20 minutes, but knowing I only have to commit to that initial window lowers the resistance.

This is my non-negotiable practice time. It’s a small daily commitment that makes me think of Natalie Goldberg’s wisdom in Writing Down the Bones: “It is odd that we never question the feasibility of a football team practising long hours for one game; yet in writing we rarely give ourselves the space for practice.”

Sol Stein reminds writers in Stein on Writing that excuses don’t hold up. He worked with Christy Brown, who could only type with one toe on his left foot—and published five of his books, one a bestseller. If Brown could show up to the page under those conditions, what’s my excuse?

This small, deliberate act transforms perseverance into progress, serving as a reminder that being a writer is about the commitment to the craft, regardless of how the day has gone.

Perhaps that’s what makes me a writer. Not the moments of inspiration, but the consistency of showing up.

The tension doesn’t go away (and that’s okay)

I used to think that once I had a publishing contract, the imposter syndrome would disappear. That once I could point to something concrete—a book with my name on it, sitting on a shelf (soon)—I’d finally feel legitimate.

But I’m starting to suspect the tension never fully goes away. Maya Angelou once said: “I have written 11 books, but each time I think, ‘Uh-oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.’” If Maya Angelou—after 11 books—still felt like a fraud, maybe the goal isn’t to eliminate the doubt. Maybe it’s to write anyway.

Maybe the writers who claim the identity most confidently aren’t the ones who never question themselves—they’re the ones who’ve learned to write alongside the doubt, not in spite of it.

Permission to claim it

If you’re waiting for someone to give you permission to claim the title of writer, let this be it:

You don’t need a degree, a traditional path, a perfect publication history, or unwavering passion. You just need to show up and write. The hesitation doesn’t disqualify you; it proves you care.

I’m still learning to say ‘I’m a writer’ without the internal caveat of ‘but not really’ or ‘trying to be.’ Some days it feels true. Other days, presumptuous. But what matters isn’t the confidence with which I claim the title—it’s the consistency with which I show up to the work.

By that measure, I’ve been a writer all along. And if you’re reading this, questioning whether you can call yourself one? You are, too.