.product_section .product_form, .product_gallery { opacity: 1; } .multi_select, form .select { display: block !important; } .image-element__wrap { display: none; }

A Writer’s Identity

March 09, 2016 | 4 min read

This is a guest post by Rebecca A. Demarest. Rebecca is an award-winning book designer, author, and technical illustrator living in Seattle, WA with her bacon-sharing husband and a temperamental cat named Cat. Her novel,Less Than Charming, is available for pre-order through March 15th on Indiegogo, and will be launching from Parkhurst Brothers Publishing, Inc. on May 1st 2016. For more information on her work, please visit her website.

Several years ago, as we were getting ready for bed, my (now ex-) boyfriend turned to me with: “You know, since you keep putting off working on your novel, I’m going to have to start introducing you as a publisher instead of a writer.”

Instinctively, I corrected him. “Illustrator, not publisher.” That’s what I did all day—I drew diagrams for computer programs at a tech publisher. Even though I automatically corrected his title gaffe, it cut me to the quick that he no longer considered me a writer. But I knew he was right; that part of my identity seemed to have started slipping away sometime after obtaining my MFA. I had immersed myself in several rounds of editing on my novel née thesis and after all the work I had done editing and revising and rewriting, I finally sent out the query letters, but the response I was hoping for never came.

It was a good experience for me as several agents gave me useful feedback instead of form rejections, but it was also depressing, because they all pointed out a major flaw that none of my previous readers had even touched on. Apparently, though they all adored the setting and the story, they just could not connect with my main character as he was presented to them at the beginning of the manuscript and I had no idea how to go about fixing that fact.

Under the pretext of trying to figure out how to fix my novel, I stopped writing. I’m a very methodical writer and I spend a lot of time planning before I begin, so it seemed logical to me to take a step back to analyze what I had and what was missing. I shelved the novel and moved forward with the rest of my life while I contemplated the changes.

At first it was just the novel itself that went untouched. Then it was my blog. I had started the blog for two reasons: to force myself into creating new fiction once a week, and to praise or rant about books that I had been reading so my friends didn’t have to hear me talk about them over and over. But then life and my health got in the way and I was running around trying to get everything done and diagnosed before work, after work, during work and my self-motivated, deadline-free writing took the hit. I stopped writing anything.

So, after an evening of hanging out with his friends, he said to me, “You know, if you keep putting off working on your novel, I’m going to have to start introducing you as a publisher instead of a writer.”

It hurt because he was questioning my identity, but even more so because I was afraid he was right. I knew I needed to start the next round of revisions on the novel. I knew I needed to create some fresh fiction and get back into the habit of writing every day. I knew all of this had to happen if I was going to progress and succeed, but never in a thousand years had I imagined myself as anything but a writer. Even when I wasn’t actively writing, I still considered myself a writer, not an illustrator.

I had been a writer when I was five and wrote my first story: “How a Butterfly got its Colors.” I ceased being a writer for exactly four months in college when I wanted to be a psychologist because I found it fascinating and thought I could make a decent living. Then a creative writing course I took cured me of my desire to make money and revived my craving to write. Maybe someday I’ll go back to psychology and look into a fascinating field called Narrative Therapies, but, for today, all I truly want to do is put words on the page and bring wonder and emotion to readers.

This then, I decided, is what it meant to be a successful writer: to put words on the page. It does not mean you put 500 words into your novel every day, no excuses, no breaks. No, it means that when the story grabs you and demands your attention, you listen, and you give it an outlet. Sometimes I go a couple months without creating new fiction, but in the meantime I am working on promotional materials, querying materials, submission applications, graphic designs for my stories, or looking for new readers. There is more to being a writer than your daily word count, or even your monthly word count. Some (very few) people are blessed to be able to be full time writers, but they are rare. Most of us must be content with fitting in a few hours here or there over a coffee while we wait for a meeting with the boss at our day-jobs, or late at night during NaNoWriMo when we feel like we’re connected to the whole world writing together.

And it can pay off. All of those stolen moments and pages, all those times where I put down the computer and despaired of being able to drag new words out of my skull, working around day-jobs and freelancing and health concerns, I can stand in front of you today and say “I am a writer,” and believe it to my core. Because I chose to reject his definition of being a writer and have embraced my own, I have brought two books to the market, I have had several short stories in journals and anthologies, including one that was featured on NPR, and I have a novel coming out with a traditional publisher this summer, all because I didn’t let someone else define me. I chose to believe I was a writer no matter what else was happening in my life, and that made all of it possible.

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

The Resurrection

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

The Revival

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?