“What do you do?” a random drunk guy yelled over the crowd. The guitarist in the corner was on his third “Wagon Wheel” of the night, so you know the tiki bar was hopping.

A little tipsy myself, I yelled back, “I’m a writer!”

A moment of alarm. Did that sound dumb? Would he laugh? Snort? Smirk knowingly?

Nope. “Cool!” he cried with a big grin. PBR sloshed out of his can. “What do you write?”

Not Where’ve you been published? Not Really? A REAL writer?

Not You? Yeah, right.

It was June 2013, and I’d just moved to Topsail Island, North Carolina from Brooklyn in order to write my novel. I’d taken leave from my job, ended a relationship, left the band I played in, and rented a teeny condo on the beach for three months. In other words, I’d shed all my old identities (marketing assistant/someone’s girlfriend/musician/Brooklyner), snake-skin-style, and now had no other answer to that ubiquitous question, except the one I had always wanted to say.

So say it I did.

I said it a lot that summer, and I felt a glow every time. Topsail’s in Marine territory, not far from Camp LeJeune, and though it’s a barrier island, it’s not famous or mansion-y enough to attract the Outer Banks crowd. So there weren’t many poofy-haired single female 20-somethings haunting its empty beach. I was something of a novelty–i.e., the only person on the island saying she was a writer–which made it easy to step into this new identity.

Claiming the identity you want–i.e., answering the question “What do you do?”–may seem small, but it’s important. A lot of people answer it by hiding behind a job title they don’t care about, afraid to say something bold like “I’m a poet” or “I’m a baseball coach.” Those things don’t seem “serious” enough. Or maybe they’re too private, too soulful. But by not owning those things, we stay a step outside of them. We keep them at arm’s length.

But words are powerful. They change things.

It was a subtle shift, my accepting the mantle of “I’m a writer.” It didn’t affect my writing per se–or, not in a way I noticed. I don’t think I wrote more or differently after that. Instead, the shift was internal. I began to see myself as the person I wanted to be. And, partly thanks to doing so, I became her.

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(Footnote 1: In Spanish, people say “A que te dedicas?” instead of “What do you do?” Literally, that means “What do you dedicate yourself to?” I love that. How would you answer differently if a stranger said to you: “What do you dedicate yourself to?” I bet the answer would be more interesting and personal and connecting than the answer to “What do you do?”)

(Footnote 2: I had a similar turning point in learning Spanish. For a year, when people asked me if I spoke Spanish, I said something like “Un poquito” (“a tiny bit”), which is what people say when they know about 5 words, and I was probably half-fluent by then. I.e., I was selling myself short. Until one day I just said Yes, I speak Spanish. It was amazing how my confidence level changed and even, I suspect, my ability.)

If you want to talk about you can take take on the identity of Author—i.e., write your own book—I can help. Let’s have a chat.