Fun fact: It took me a ridiculously long time to accept my label as “writer.” 

I definitely didn’t adopt it even with a decade of copywriting for businesses under my belt. I couldn’t call myself a writer when I started my Queer Abby blog with hundreds of readers that eventually morphed into this Substack. Even holding my own book baby, Perfectly Queer, in my hands, seeing my name across the cover in bold lettering and my headshot on the back, I struggled to accept the label of writer or author.

I know. Ridiculous, right?

But it’s a recurring theme that I’ve noticed in my life and now with many other authors that I ghostwrite for. When do we cross that threshold? When are we allowed to label ourselves in a role?

What I find even more curious is that nobody… I repeat NOBODY… ever told me that I wasn’t a writer. Not a single reader, not Good Morning America when they picked my book, not a rando on TikTok, not even a disgruntled family member. I have had approximately zero, give or take zero, experiences of being told that I wasn’t really a writer. I imagine the same is true for many others. So what is it that fuels these stories?

Read the full story at Reframe with Jillian Abby.