Am I really a writer if no one is reading?
If Alice in Wonderland thought about doing six impossible things before breakfast, I was the type to prove why these six impossible things were named impossible in the first place. I was the type to question why you would even think about impossible things if, in the end, it meant disappointment.
There is this belief that everything has already been written, and it was difficult, to say the least, to have dreamt carelessly about being a writer yet have done nothing so grand in my 20s. It made me think that maybe the struggling writer trope was too real to be considered fictional.
In my sophomore year of college, I decided to seek validation outside academics—which meant doing internships. For some reason, my dream to become a writer had suddenly curved into marketing. Not to say that there’s no joy in marketing, but whenever I remember this passionate kid in me—the one who did everything to be where they are now—it was like another dream became a hobby. It was every writer’s nightmare. Despite enjoying marketing, there was something in me that knew I should be doing something I really wanted to do, which was to write.
The ‘unread writer’ is not a label of obscurity but a badge of honor—a testament to the courage to write for the love of writing itself.
Since then, everything I’ve written has been in secret, but maybe not by choice. From running a blog I never shared to poetry pieces that never left my journal, it was almost as if I wrote better when I did it in secrecy. Unfortunately, I wasn’t one of those gifted kids who was “Shakespeare reincarnated”; I was just an average college student who wanted to write and be read, and I know I wasn’t the only one who was feeling exactly this. In all honesty, it could have been another trope.
I found myself thinking, “Am I really a writer if no one is reading?”
Who decides my work is good if I never put anything out? Would it be embarrassing to label myself a writer if no one has ever read my work?
There are days I stare at a blank page, a canvas for so many possibilities, but it has transformed into a mirror, reflecting my doubt and questioning. I often wonder if the act of writing is enough to define me as a writer.
Despite all these uncertainties, I realized the only person who can put me down is myself. Being a writer was never about the audience, but your ability to create an impact through your words; to speak for someone who could not. It was always about the authenticity of the voice within.
This realization did not come easily. It was more of a process of just not letting myself drown in the sea of doubt and uncertainty—as they say, it is always easier said than done.
It was by being the “unread writer” that I was able to discover the beauty of being solitary. I realized that a writer finds validation not through others, but from what their writing can bring. Whether it’s solace from their own soul or appreciation from their audience, nevertheless, it felt all the same—it was the true essence of being a writer.
Some days, it becomes easier to doubt yourself than to actually do something about it. It’s the act of writing that brings you back to the place where you can be content with just being able to master the skill, even if it may feel like it’s not enough sometimes. It means continuing to write despite the self-doubt, despite not having a single reader, and thinking it is enough.
As I navigate the delicate balance between self-doubt and creative conviction, I am reminded that every great writer faces moments of uncertainty. The difference lies in how they embraced it, and the best way is by turning it into fuel for their creative fire. The narrative of a writer is never straight to success but rather a series of peaks and valleys: the ones you can look back on and just laugh at eventually.
Just write whatever you please. Do not write for the applause but for the satisfaction of being able to.
In the grand scheme of my writing, I am both the artist and the art, the storyteller and the story. The “unread writer” is not a label of obscurity but a badge of honor—a testament to the courage to write for the love of writing itself.
Perhaps, in the quiet corners of solitude, my words will find their way to those who need them, creating ripples in the vast ocean of human experience.
Whenever I feel the doubt crippling back to me, I am reminded of all the moments I lose and find myself repetitively, in different souls, different entities, different occasions, and different birthdays. Yet, at the end of everything, I am still who I am and I still go back to the one thing that I know best—writing.
So, to answer the question, “Am I really a writer if no one is reading?” The answer will always be “yes,” even on the days that you might not believe it.
