Blog 90 - What makes a Writer?

Blog 90 - What makes a Writer?

November 2025

I recently did something deeply painful and profoundly necessary: I dove back into the archives of this blog. It wasn't a casual scroll. It was a forensic expedition, I was looking for a particular quote I vaguely remember writing a year or so ago about the smell of old paperbacks (a quote, I should add, I never found). What I did find, however, was something far more revealing, and honestly, a little embarrassing. I found a recurring theme, a subtle, almost unconscious insistence, woven into the fabric of my older posts. It was the way I perpetually defined myself. It was the phrase: “As a writer.”
Now, before you reach for your pitchforks, I know. In this technological world, anyone who strings a few words together and hits ‘publish’ is technically a writer. The bar is low, but what I’m getting at is that I have a deeply ingrained, almost pathological habit of pulling myself out of the crowd, dusting off my invisible tweed blazer, and declaring myself 'A Writer'—capitalized, italicized, and whispered with the reverence usually reserved for Nobel Laureates or people who at the very least, successfully assembles IKEA furniture without crying.
The surprising realization wasn't that I write, the surprise was that this identity seems to hold such a disproportionate weight in my own personal ledger of self-worth. When I apply for something, or when I fill out those little online forms that demand to know my essence, I don’t say I’m a writer, I put my actual, primary job title, the one that pays the mortgage and the heating bill, I put Night Security Officer.
It’s a respectable, necessary, reliable title. It conjures images of efficiency, vigilance, keys jangling, and perhaps drinking slightly too much strong instant coffee at 3 AM while watching CCTV screens that show nothing but static and dust motes. So, why in my blogs, or when asked “What do you do?” at social events do the words tumble out: “Oh, I’m a writer.”
It is here where the sudden, uncomfortable jolt of honesty hit me during my archived excavation. Why do I feel the need to elevate my stature this way? Why does the fact that I write—a hobby, a passion, an unrepresented and unpublished sideline—feel inherently more important, more defining, than the reality of my employment?
It's as if the identity of 'Night Security Officer' grounds me firmly in the population—a cog in the machine, a unit of labor—while the identity of 'A Writer' separates me. It grants me an entry ticket into a social elite club, into a different, arguably cooler, level of existence. It’s the difference between "He keeps the doors locked," and "He observes the human condition." One sounds like a lot of paperwork, the other sounds like poetry. And I, clearly, am desperate to sound like poetry.
I think there are several reasons why so many of us who write—and are not yet officially validated by agents, deadlines, or royalties—cling to this title like a life raft. We believe it’s Aspirational. Being a Night Security Officer is a state of being. Being a writer is a state of becoming. The title "Writer" is inherently forward-looking. It implies potential: the great novel that MIGHT be written, the viral post that COULD launch a career, the idea that is currently gestating, ready to change the world (or at least, ready to get five likes on Twitter). It’s hope wrapped up in four syllables.
It’s not just that though, the description of my job is largely about vigilance and stillness. I wait. I observe. I prevent bad things from happening. It’s reactive. Writing, however, is pure creation. Even if the output is terrible, the act itself is aggressive, proactive, and demanding. It feels like work that matters, because it is work that originates entirely within my own head. When I’m writing, I am the CEO, the janitor, the muse, and the editor. It is the ultimate expression of autonomy, which is a glorious feeling when you spend 40 hours a week being ruled by a schedule.
Okay, if I’m being honest, there’s also a dash of pretentiousness in it, as well. The title ‘Writer’ suggests a commitment to contemplation. It suggests that I don't just live in the 21st century; I analyze it. It implies that I am sensitive, that I notice the shade of light hitting the window at 4:17 AM, and that I can articulate the full impact of that scene in a verse or sentence that will resonate within your heart. But it’s a costume, a full-blown farce really. The uniform of the Night Security Officer is regulation dark blue; but the uniform of ‘A Writer’ is perception itself. And oh, do I love wearing that uniform. It’s an excuse to escape. It allows me to justify the fact that I am often aloof, staring into the middle distance and muttering dialogue under my breath.
However, the truly funny thing, the quiet irony that has slowly dawned on me, is that my two lives are not actually in opposition. They are co-conspirators. The Night Security Officer provides the perfect canvas for the Writer. If I were, say, a high-powered corporate lawyer, my days would be filled with arguments, deadlines, and noise. Where would the quiet space for creation hide? But as a Night Security Officer, I am nocturnal. My environment is silent, vast, and predictable. I am paid to be still. I am paid to watch. I am paid to observe the subtle shifts in the shadows.
It turns out, being a Night Security Officer is the ideal apprenticeship for a writer. It teaches patience, attention to detail, and a deep appreciation for the strange things that happen when the world is asleep. My notebook is filled with things I’ve seen on shift: the unnerving way a streetlamp flickers during a specific temperature drop; the sound profile of an owl at 3:45 AM; the specific kind of melancholy that settles over the theme park before dawn. These are the details I harvest when my security rounds are finished, and the world is quiet.
When you’re not published, you need something to prove that the title of being ‘A Writer’ is deserved. You don’t have an editor demanding a specific word count; you have to demand it of yourself. You don’t have a contract stating you must deliver 80,000 words by Tuesday; you have to insist that your inner writer produces at least a solid 1000 words of reflective rambling on a Tuesday morning. If I didn't hold myself to these arbitrary standards of length and frequency, I might wake up one day and realize that I was just the Night Guard who dabbled in keyboards. And that, frankly, terrifies the aspirational part of my soul.
I’m starting to realize that the moment I stop distinguishing between the two titles, the closer I get to true contentment. The writer in me needs the Night Security Officer for structure, observation, and the quiet dignity of a dependable routine. The Night Security Officer needs the writer in me for perspective, creativity, and the preservation of hope during the long, dark hours.
The value of this self-imposed title isn't derived from whether my words are bound in hardback or searched for on the internet; the value is in the fact that I have taken a commitment to write. A commitment to carry on observing, analyzing, and putting the words down, even when the only person reading them is the solitary figure monitoring the parking lot cameras.
So yes, I am a Night Security Officer. And yes, I am a writer.
And perhaps, I don't need the internal fanfare anymore. The fact that I showed up to put words on the page today—that I filled this space with over 1000 words of reflection—is enough of a declaration. The title is earned not by the outcome, but by the relentless, quiet work done between midnight and dawn. I am a writer – Hear me Roar!