This business about “If you write, you’re a writer” is off-putting. No one ever says, “If you nurse someone back from a cold, you’re a nurse,” or “If you can spout the law, you’re a lawyer.”

I get that the phrase is meant to encourage aspiring writers or maybe even seasoned ones who missed a word count or are deep in self-doubt, but tucked inside that fluffy bit of validation is something dismissive. In trying to help writers believe in themselves, the phrase reduces the act of writing and the identity of being a writer to something so vague it’s nearly meaningless.

No other profession needs this kind of cheerleading. If you refill your washer fluid, no one calls you a mechanic. Because being a mechanic isn’t just about popping a hood; it’s about skill. Knowledge. Practice. That’s why it gets the label.

Maybe this is all to do with money. Writers need reminding that, despite their non-existent or paltry paycheck, they are still valuable. But, no one ever says, “If you knot a string, you’re a knitter,” or “If you put a dab of paint on a paper, you’re a painter.” 

Well, they may say that last one, but they shouldn’t. Lots of people paint. I love doodling and breaking out the watercolors, but I am not an artist, nor am I a painter. I do fill my washer fluid, and occasionally change a tire, but I am not a mechanic, nor am I a roadside assistant. I brush and floss my teeth, but I’m not a dental hygienist.

So, while I’m sure the phrase, “If you write, you’re a writer,” is well intentioned and might be motivational, I find it akin to that person who says, “Ooh, I have a book in me too.” or “I would write a book if I could just find the time.” 

Writing has become this thing we can all do, and I don’t believe that if you write, you’re a writer any more than I believe that if you listen to your friends, you’re a psychologist.

Writers work and often struggle with words. They face the impossible task of translating what spills from their minds and hearts into something meaningful on a page. Like doctors, they study. They read, attend workshops, seminars, and even earn continuing education credits—formally and informally.

Writers practice conveying the shared human (and sometimes not-so-human) experience with readers. They explain complex concepts, spotlight current events, make us laugh, cry, and feel seen. They break hearts, and then put them back together again.

If I jot down three things I’m grateful for every morning, I’m writing, but I am not a writer. If I write my thoughts and feelings in a notebook, compose endless emails, or send handwritten cards, I’m not a writer.

So, if you don’t roll around in the words, read, question your choices, occasionally agonize over the perfect word for that almost-perfect sentence, and then do it all again and again until you’re exhausted, then with respect (as my youngest says), you may write, but you are not a writer.

And that’s okay. Maybe you’re a surgeon who keeps a great journal. Or a teacher who writes beautifully on the board. Good for you. The world needs surgeons. And teachers. And mechanics. And writers.

My thoughts from the laundry room. Nightstand Notebook.

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