The Identity Crisis of 'Am I a Writer If I Haven't Finished a Book?

There are days I write four chapters back-to-back in a euphoric state where I’m like, yes, this is it, this is the draft that's going to get me on the NYT Bestseller list before I turn 20. My book will get adapted into a Netflix show, and Zhang Linghe will play the emotionally unavailable love interest with a tragic backstory and a knife collection. I will wear a backless dress to the red carpet premiere and pretend to be humble.

And then... the very next day... I sit down, open Google Docs, type two sentences, and immediately spiral into an identity crisis because I can't remember how to spell “nececsary.” No wait. Nescessary? Neccessery?? Honestly, the word looks wrong no matter how I spell it. I could win a Pulitzer and still use Grammarly like a lifeline,

and it wasn’t like I just woke up one random Sunday and thought, “I shall become a novelist today.” I’ve been writing since the third grade. My first story? It was basically a Resident Evil fanfic (and I didn’t even know it was called fanfiction) scribbled at the back of my math notebook. Did I plagiarize? Absolutely. Did I care? Nope. I hated math anyway.

I was the kind of kid whose classmates would crowd around her during break time like, “Did you finish Chapter 4?” And I’d dramatically say, “You’ll get it after lunch.” And then handwrite it like it was a manuscript that was going straight to HarperCollins. Even my class teacher would wait to read it. Which, looking back, is either adorable or deeply concerning. I think she was just too kind to stop me.

Anyway, one day my math teacher asked me to submit the math notebook. I panicked, said I forgot it at home. She checked my bag. Pulled it out. Flipped it open. And there it was:

Chapter One: The Return of Ada.

My blood drained. My ancestors trembled. My soul left my body and watched from the ceiling.

She didn’t say anything. Just took the notebook. Later, I found out she called my mom.

So now I was grounded, my zombie saga was confiscated, and I was told to “focus on studies.” And you know what? I did. Like a good, obedient asian kid who was told dreams were a weekend activity at best.

I stopped writing.

The only time I ever wrote again was in the creative writing section of the English exam, and I used to go feral. I’d hand in three extra sheets and pretend not to notice the invigilator’s side-eye. It was the one place I could still feel like myself without getting told off for not choosing science.

Then came fifteen. First heartbreak. First villain origin story.

He broke my heart and I was like: you know what? I will now write a novel. You (the villain in question) will be the antagonist. Everyone will hate you. I will become famous. You will know regret.

I started a writing account and posted the first chapter of my novel and I was back. I was thriving. Making writer friends. Promoting my story like I was running a startup. Getting comments. Posting moodboards. It was like a Wattpad renaissance.

Until I got another idea and dropped the first one.

Then another. Dropped that too.

Repeat.

I had like four beginnings and zero endings. Which—yes—is very on brand for me emotionally and romantically but not very useful when you’re trying to be a serious writer.

Eventually, I hit that point where I was like, “Okay Vie. Be honest with yourself. Are you really a writer if you’ve never actually finished a book?”

I thought, maybe not. Maybe I’m just pretending. Maybe I’m the girl who wants to be a writer more than she actually is one.

So I posted on my story that I’d be deleting my account. Told people it was fun while it lasted. Told myself maybe my third-grade teacher was right after all. Maybe I should just stick to “practical” goals. Like being a lawyer or a journalist or something with a salary and a LinkedIn page.

And then something weird happened. My DMs blew up.

People saying, “Your writing made me feel understood.” “Even your unfinished chapters helped me.” “You are a writer. Whether you finish the novel or not.”

I read those messages, and for the first time in a long time, I felt seen.

So I tried again and this time? I finished the book.

Not a perfect one. Not one that’s been published or has an ISBN or whatever. But it exists.

It’s messy and real and kind of magical in a way that only a first book can be.

And here's what I've realized:

Being a writer isn’t about holding a printed book and saying, “Look what I made.” It’s about wanting to scream because there’s a character in your head who won’t shut up. It’s about rewriting the same sentence seven times and still hating it.

It’s about quitting, crying, getting dramatic, and then opening your laptop again anyway because ugh fine the plot twist needs to happen in Chapter Nine. It’s about the fact that characters show up in your head uninvited and refuse to leave until you write them down.

It’s about being unable to let go of the stories, even when the world tells you they don’t matter.

And yeah, it’s hard. It’s brutal. It’s the constant state of “am I a genius or the worst writer alive?” It’s comparing yourself to people who have book deals and think in pretty quotes. It’s imposter syndrome thriving on caffeine. It’s convincing yourself you’re a fraud because someone else wrote faster.

But guess what?

Some of the best writers didn’t publish until their 30s, 40s, 60s. Toni Morrison wrote her first novel at 39 while working as an editor. Frank McCourt published Angela’s Ashes at 66. Franz Kafka died unpublished! Probably thinking he was a failure, and now we use his name as an adjective. (Kafkaesque)

So no. Finishing a book isn’t what makes you a writer. Writing—even badly, inconsistently, obsessively, painfully—is what does.

The label isn’t something you earn by crossing a finish line. It’s something you carry, kind of like a secret superpower.

And look, I still have days when I spiral. Days when I reread my own work and cringe so hard I want to crawl inside a cabinet and disappear. But I also have days where I look at a sentence I wrote and think, God, that’s beautiful. I think, Maybe this is what I’m meant to do.

So if you’re reading this, wondering if you're a writer—

Have you ever rewritten a line in your head 30 times and still not written it down? Have you ever told yourself you’d quit, only to come back to the page anyway? Have you ever felt like your whole world is just one good metaphor away from making sense?

So go ahead. Write your chaos. Misspell necessary. Cry in the middle of Chapter 5. Romanticize your own plot arc.

Because at the end of the day, the only thing that separates writers from non-writers isn’t talent.

It’s obsession.

And that’s the whole point of this thing, isn’t it?

Written By: Aurivienne Everose