For everyone I know who is a writer, there was some awkward time in their lives when they had to learn to call themselves one.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I felt uncomfortable calling myself a writer until I started with 'The New Yorker,' and then I was like, 'Okay, now you can call yourself that.'
I don't remember a time when I didn't define myself as a writer.
I don't call myself a writer.
Any writer worth the name is always getting into one thing or getting out of another thing.
I've never thought of myself as a writer. I still don't, despite all the writing I've done.
People love talking about writers as storytellers, but I hate being called that: it suggests I got it from my grandmother or something, when my writing really comes out of silence. If a storyteller came up to me, I'd run away.
I can't say that I ever actually decided to become a writer. It kind of snuck up on me.
I've been writing since I was really young, so I considered myself a writer for a really long time.
I'd always liked to write, but I never wanted to be a writer, because it seemed a sissy occupation. It is. To this day, I find it terribly easy. And so, rather than trying to hunt up a text, I just wrote one.
I didn't know anything about writers. It never occurred to me they were regular people and that I could grow up to become one, even though I loved to make up stories inside my head.