Recently, I was attending a party at my brother and sister-in-law’s house, when a friend of theirs whom I have met a couple of times but never really spoken to asked me what I do. I told him that I am currently working at a bank, and that I am about to finish my degree in English-Creative Writing. He said, logically, “So you are a writer?”. And, my brain froze, I internally stuttered over calling myself a writer. I am roughly two terms away from a degree in Creative Writing and I am hesitant to call myself a writer.
What the ever loving hell is that?
Oh, I know what this is, Impostor Syndrome. That feeling that you are not good enough, smart enough, or enough enough. How can I claim to be a writer? Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, Charles de Lint, J.K. Rowling, hell even V.C. Andrews are writers, are authors. I am, what, a dabbler, a student, a learner, but not a writer.
But why not? Why not a writer. I have written poetry and stories since I was old enough to do so. I have hosted a blog on one platform or another since 2008. I have written essays with depth, and meaning. I have grown and learned, and written so much. When do I become a writer then?
In the end I told him I am a writer. I told him about my blog, and how I had just bought my domain. He loved my “brand” and told me that he works in publishing for companies. We had a lovely talk about publishing, self-publishing, and self-promotion. It was nice to get outside validation of some of my choices as a writer.
Because I am a writer.