The Moment I Decided to Treat My Writing Like a Profession

Not long ago, someone asked me what I did for a living. My family and I were at a festival. It was casual. Nothing formal, and the question came naturally enough. For years, I would have qualified my answer. I would say, “I’m a professor.” Or, “I’m a teacher.” Only occasionally would I add, “Yeah, I also write books.” All technically true, but also slightly evasive.

This time, though, for some reason, I instinctively said, “I’m an author.”

There was a spike of anxiety immediately after I said it—almost a reflexive response to the words. I mentally qualified it. I wanted to soften it, contextualize it, explain it. But I didn’t. I let the sentence stand.

It still feels uncomfortable to say it, and it’s that kind of discomfort that has followed me for years. It surfaces whenever someone compliments my writing. It surfaces when my wife refers to me as an author in conversation. Whenever the dreaded question arises, and it always does: “What do you do?”

The internal response is predictable and blunt:

I’m a fraud.
Not “I need to improve.” Not “I’m still growing.”
Just: I’m a fraud.

For a long time, I told myself I did not have what it takes to build a writing career. I framed it as realism. As humility. As “I know my own limitations.” But over time, I started noticing where that sentence showed up. It appeared whenever visibility was required or when I had to claim the role publicly, whenever growth seemed possible.

Writing itself has never been the hard part. I enjoy the process. I can plan a story, work out the details, finish a manuscript, edit it, and release it.

But showing up publicly is so much harder.

Recently, my wife and I were at a bookstore, considering it as a potential venue for our upcoming Halloween release event for my third book in the Meadow Series, Beautiful the Meadow. We reached the checkout. It was the perfect moment to ask about author events.

But I said nothing.

I just figured the opportunity had passed. I told myself I could always follow up with an email after we left. But, out of nowhere, my wife asked the question I should have asked myself.

Why didn’t I speak?

There was not one single reason, but, instead, it was all of them at once. Fear of rejection. Fear they would look at me sideways—fear of appearing presumptuous. The panicked thought that someone would figure out that I was claiming something I hadn’t earned.

I’ve come to realize, though, that this hesitation is not about skill.

It is about identity.

The turning point for me did not come through frustration. It eventually came through gratitude. Three years ago, God brought me a wife who became my biggest supporter the moment she read my books. There was no hesitation on her part. No careful qualification. She believed in what I was doing immediately. And, over those last three years, that support has become a steady environment for growth. Not dramatic. Not overnight. But, gradually. And consistently.

At my first-ever pop-up book signing last June, we set up on the street near a festival a block away. We had no idea what to expect. But, to my surprise, by the end of the day, we had sold most of our inventory. Random people stopped on their way to the festival or on the way back to their cars.

They were curious.
They engaged.
They bought books.

I remember feeling excited, surprised, and panicked all at once. I did not know how to process the interest people had. Later, I minimized it in my mind.

It was just a good day.
It was just foot traffic.
It doesn’t mean anything long-term.

That pattern has repeated itself in different forms over the years. Positive feedback was always disqualified. Opportunities were hesitated over. Compliments were mentally corrected. Underneath it all was a comparison. In my mind, a legitimate author is someone who makes a living entirely from writing. He sells consistently. He does not hesitate when asked what he does. He carries the identity without flinching.

He is successful.

By that definition, I was not legitimate. But the longer I sat with that standard, the more I realized something important: I was measuring legitimacy only by outcome, and not by behavior.

The truth is: a career is built through behavior, not just outcomes.
And a successful writing career has to be built.

If writing is a profession, then production schedules are not optional. Marketing is not arrogance; it is distribution. Public visibility is not vanity; it is infrastructure. Data tracking actually matters. Long-term positioning is required. I realized that most of my internal friction was not about calling myself an author. It was about being measured as one, and the fear I would come up wanting.

Relief comes easily when you step back from visibility. Let’s face it, there are fewer expectations when you don’t put yourself out there. No risk of saying the wrong thing. No chance to fail publicly. No way they will conclude I’m a delusional wannabe. But I’ve learned this kind of relief is short-lived. The feeling of failure follows close behind, because ambition does not simply disappear when you go quiet.

Eventually, I had to admit something uncomfortable: what I called humility was nothing more than avoidance. What I called realism was often just fear of exposure. But I realized that if I want my books to grow in popularity and build a genuine readership, I cannot remain insulated from those same readers.

This last year, I’ve learned a lot about the book business. But, more than anything else, I’ve discovered that I can do this. I can interact with people on social media. I can write how I actually feel. I can sit behind a table at a public venue and talk with interested readers about my books. I can sign a copy and sell it without feeling like I’m pretending. And I’ve actually found that much of the business side of publishing is like a breath of fresh air. It is often very systematized. It is structured. Simple. Repeatable. And that realization has cut through the haze of uncertainty, removing my tendency toward negotiation.

Instead of asking, “Do I feel like posting?” the question becomes irrelevant. Instead of wondering whether this month requires reflection, it is already built into the schedule. Of course, the system does not eliminate the anxiety spikes. I don’t know if anything ever will. But it actually does something even better.

It aligns my behavior with my ambition.

I may still feel the reflex to qualify my words. But I am no longer building my career writing supernatural suspense around that discomfort. I’m no longer allowing it to make decisions for me, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. Taking writing seriously as a career is not a declaration of arrival. It is a decision about intent, and then actually doing it.

Write.
Publish.
Communicate.
Track.
Adjust.
Repeat.

Not emotionally. Not sporadically. Professionally. And only time will determine the outcome. My responsibility is the work.

The rhythm.
The discipline.
Then—repeat.