For most “writers,” being asked the question, “Are you a writer?” is not an emotional experience that results in a five second existential crisis. Most people are completely comfortable with proclaiming that, in spite of never having been published and being a relative (or, rather, total) unknown, that, yes, they are a writer. This is both a testament to the increased ego propagated by too much
internet convenience and the diminished quality of prose itself.
Saying “I’m a writer” is a quick way to excuse unemployment, social awkwardness and general grossness on manifold levels. Considering that writing is the lowest paying, least valued occupation outside of advertising or being a famous screenwriter and/or franchised book series author, it seems rather clear what everyone thinks of the so-called “art.”
The utter pride with which fat, subsidized writers announce their “profession” is absolutely disgusting. Sitting in front of your Mac (just as I’m doing now) while you perform a number of other “tasks” (just as I’m doing now) that distract you from your sacred writing is just one of the reasons you’re not a writer (or, at best, just another shitty one clogging the career pool).
And then there is the most irksome of all qualities about writers: They must constantly discuss their “projects.” As though anyone gave a shit. They don’t. So the next time someone asks you what you do, please don’t shout from the mountaintop, “I am a writer” (this goes double for Lena Dunham). After all, writing should be a silent, semi-noble endeavor.