Writing Myself into Being
“What do you do?” they’d ask. My answer always came with a pause. “I like to write,” I’d say, as though hedging a confession. Writers, I thought, were people with books on shelves, bylines in magazines, or awards to their names—people who had arrived. I wrote, yes, but was that enough to call myself a writer?
That hesitation wasn’t just modesty—it was doubt. To say, “I am a writer,” felt like stepping into a spotlight I wasn’t sure I deserved. It invited questions I couldn’t answer: What had I published? Who had noticed? The gap between writing as an act and “writer” as an identity felt vast, as though a border existed that I hadn’t yet crossed.
“The leap from doing to being isn’t about external validation ... it’s about daring to write yourself into being, to say, ‘This is who I am,’ and trusting that the act itself is enough.”
This divide is one many of us face. We hesitate to claim identities—artist, teacher, leader—because we fear not measuring up. Imposter syndrome makes us doubt what we’ve earned, whispering that we don’t belong. But the leap from doing to being isn’t about external validation. It’s about trust. It’s about daring to write yourself into being, to say, “This is who I am,” and to believe it, word by word.
The Power of Language
Language shapes how we see ourselves. To say, “I write,” describes something I do—a verb contained in action. But to say, “I am a writer,” transforms that action into identity, weaving it into the fabric of who I am.
This shift carries weight. In a culture where identity is tied to achievement, titles feel like rewards we must earn. For writers, those rewards—publication, income, recognition—often seem like prerequisites for legitimacy. Without them, it’s easy to feel as though calling yourself a writer is overreaching.
But identity isn’t about waiting for permission. It’s about choosing the words that define us. Writers observe, imagine, and create. They wrestle with words, emotions, and ideas. Whether the audience is vast or imagined, the act of writing reflects the heart of a writer. To write is to be a writer. Writing isn’t just what we do; it’s how we become.
Imposter Syndrome: The Blank Page of Identity
Even knowing this, imposter syndrome whispers its doubts: “Who are you to call yourself a writer?” It thrives on comparison, urging us to measure our work against others’ highlights and find ourselves lacking.
I remember the first time I shared my writing in a workshop. My hands trembled as I read aloud, convinced my words would reveal how inexperienced I was. The feedback was kind, even encouraging, but I couldn’t shake the fear that it was just politeness. For days afterward, I replayed their expressions, searching for hidden judgment. Each word I wrote after that felt heavier, as though the act of writing itself might expose me.
That same self-doubt followed me into every new endeavor. In 1999, at 38, I created an online writing group that I ran for four years, building a small but supportive community. During that time, I had poems published in several anthologies—but instead of celebrating those accomplishments, I let imposter syndrome convince me they didn’t count. If they were publishing me, I thought, the outlets must not be legitimate.
This is the insidious nature of imposter syndrome. It convinces us that the blank page of our identity can only be filled by external validation. It ignores the courage it takes to put words onto that page, to write ourselves into being, line by line.
Redefining What It Means to Write
What if we stopped waiting for permission to call ourselves writers? What if we redefined writing as a practice rather than a performance?
Anne Lamott reminds us, “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere.” This perspective frees us from the pressure of perfection. It lets us see writing not as a destination but as a process—a journey of shaping thoughts, making mistakes, and trying again.
For years, I worked on multiple projects—a poetry collection, a non-fiction book, two novels, a short story collection, even an illustrated children’s book—yet fear of failure kept me from finishing any of them. Then, two years ago, something shifted. A nonprofit I serve on asked me to contribute to a book they were publishing. I decided to write a new poem for the project, and for the first time, the idea of being a “published author” took hold. That moment gave me permission to embrace the identity I’d resisted for so long.
Since then, writing has entered a new phase of my life. Embracing semi-retirement, I’ve focused on doing the things that bring me joy. I’ve created a blog exploring the intersection of storytelling and AI, leaned heavily into personal essay writing, and committed to finishing the first draft of my novel by the end of the year. Each project feels like another page in the story I am writing for myself—a story of becoming, of belonging, of being.
Becoming a Writer
For me, the shift began with small acts of courage. I joined writing communities, started sharing my work more widely, and practiced saying, “I am a writer,” even when it felt strange. Each time, the words felt less like a borrowed coat and more like my own skin.
“Being a writer isn’t about reaching a single destination. It’s about showing up, creating, and sharing your voice.”
This week, those words took on new weight. After submitting an essay to a highly regarded online publication with over seven million followers, I learned it will be published in the next two months. It’s a moment of affirmation, but not arrival—because being a writer isn’t about reaching a single destination. It’s about showing up, creating, and sharing your voice, no matter how long it takes to get here.
Conclusion: Writing Myself into Being
I’ve spent my life writing. From winning my first national competition at seven to creating an online writing group at 38, from abandoned projects to published poems, writing has been the constant thread that’s shaped who I am. Now, at 63, days away from finishing my first novel and celebrating my most widely-read publication yet, I know this to be true: being a writer isn’t something I became. It’s something I’ve always been.
Claiming that title feels like striking a match in the dark—not just to illuminate the path ahead, but to warm the part of me that had doubted I deserved the light.
If we’re brave enough to name what we already are, what other possibilities might we write into being—not just for ourselves, but for the worlds waiting to be imagined?