I have a confession to make. This is only the second post I’ve written here on SMART Living 365 in six months.
For someone who almost religiously wrote a post every single week for over a decade—who has written seven books and hundreds of articles across the last 35 years—that silence has felt strange. A little unsettling, if I’m honest. And while I’ve been busy and enjoying my life, somewhere in the middle of these silent months, a question floated up that I haven’t been able to shake: When does a writer stop being a writer?
I must also confess that it took me years before I even claimed to be a writer. I didn’t think I deserved the title. I didn’t feel like my writing compared to other writers I appreciated. Even when I was being paid to write, I still felt unworthy. Then finally something shifted and I felt at home calling myself a writer. But now that I haven’t been writing as much, can I still call myself a writer?
Plus, it’s not just the break that’s got me wondering. It’s something bigger, something I suspect some of you have been turning over too. Because just as I fell quiet, artificial intelligence arrived on the scene—and suddenly a machine can produce a polished essay in seconds. So I’ve caught myself asking a question I never expected to ask myself lately: Is my writing even necessary anymore?
The Trap of Defining Ourselves By What We Produce
Here’s where my thinking started. So much of how we define ourselves is tied to what we produce. No matter what you do or have done—you likely define yourself by that. If you’re a writer it’s what you’re writing. A painter if there’s fresh paint on the canvas. A runner if you laced up your shoes this morning. And the unspoken assumption underneath it all is that the moment we stop doing the thing, we stop being the thing.
But is that actually true?
Thom and I have been entrepreneurs together since we opened our first business back in 1977, and I don’t believe he stopped being one during the quiet stretches between ventures. I don’t stop being a wife to Thom on the days we’re apart, or a lifelong seeker on the days I feel lost. Some identities aren’t tasks we check off—they’re lenses we look through—the way we look at the world. And I’ve slowly come to believe that being a writer is exactly that kind of identity. It’s less about the word count and far more about the way we move through the world.
The Question AI Forced Me to Ask
Now here’s where the AI part comes in, because I don’t think I can write honestly about this without addressing it head-on.
Yes, a machine can now assemble words faster and more tidily than I ever could. I won’t pretend that isn’t remarkable, or that it hasn’t rattled me a little. But sitting with it these past months, I’ve realized something: what I do here has never really been about assembling words. If it were, I’d have quit long ago.
I don’t write to produce content. I write to figure out what I think. I write to make sense of the world and my life with Thom in our tiny house in the desert. I write to work through the wonder of things, to notice the light shaded by the palm trees in the late afternoon. An AI can describe that light. But it hasn’t lived under it. It doesn’t have my forty years of journals, my adventures, my particular joys, the specific texture of one human life paying attention.
And that, I’ve decided, is the one thing no machine can ever hand you: a real person, honestly noticing, and telling you the truth about what it’s like to be alive. Isn’t that the reason any of us reach for a book, or a blog, or a letter from a friend in the first place?
What 40 Years of Journaling Taught Me About the Quiet
As I’ve mentioned here numerous times I’ve been journaling since sometime in the 1980s, not long after I read Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. The last four decades of my life are largely contained in those pages—memories, ideas, lessons, regrets, celebrations…you name it. And yes I continue to write in there even though I haven’t been blogging.
And here’s what those journals remind me: I have gone quiet before. Life gets loud. Seasons arrive where simply getting through the day takes everything we have, and there’s nothing left for the page. Yet even in those stretches, I never stopped putting thoughts together. I never stopped noticing. That noticing, that paying attention, I’ve come to believe, is the writing—long before a single word ever lands on the page. Have you ever felt something like that yourself, in whatever it is you love to do?
Reframing the Question
So maybe I’ve been asking the wrong question all along. Maybe it isn’t “When does a writer stop being a writer?” And maybe it isn’t even “Is my writing still necessary?”
Maybe the far better question is “What do I want to do with the writer I still am?”
Because if this topic tugs at something in you—if you’ve ever wondered whether your voice still matters in a world that can now generate a thousand words in the blink of an eye—then I suspect you already know the answer. Your voice matters because it’s yours. Your thoughts, ideas, creations matter because they are yours. Here are a few of the ways I’m learning to honor that for myself, especially in the slower seasons:
- Give yourself permission to rest.Fallow ground isn’t dead ground—it’s replenishing.
- Keep noticing.Jot down one sentence, one overheard line, one small observation. No pressure to build anything from it yet.
- Create what only you can create.Your lived experience is the one thing that can never be automated.
- Release the timeline.There’s no expiration date on creativity, and no algorithm that can replace a genuine human voice. You are not “behind.”
- Redefine what counts.A journal entry counts. A note to a friend counts. One honest paragraph counts.
So—When Does a Writer Stop Being a Writer?
After several quiet months and a good long while of wondering, here’s where I’ve landed: I don’t think a writer ever truly stops.
The doing will ebb and flow with the seasons of our lives, the way everything does. Machines may come along that can imitate the doing. But the being—paying attention, the feeling, the endless reaching for words to make sense of it all—that stays. It’s woven into who we are. And it turns out that’s the very part no machine can touch.
I know this because the post you’re reading is proof. After months of silence, and all my wondering about whether it even mattered anymore, here I am—still reaching for the words. Exploring ideas. They came back. They always do.
So if you’ve been quietly wondering whether you can still call yourself a writer—or whether your creative voice is still needed in this strange new world—let me answer on your behalf: Yes. You can. And yes, it matters.
Now—what will you notice today?
Acknowledgement: The above post was written in collaboration by me with the help of AI.
An opening conversation with someone new often includes the question, “What do you do?” A common question upon retirement was, “What do you do?” when your time is not defined by the formal work role. It’s a challenging question – Who are you? I often challenge myself with coming up with an answer to that question without incorporating the traditional roles. I think Brian Andreas sums it up – There are things you do because they feel right & they may make no sense & they may make no money & it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other & to eat each other’s cooking & say it was good.
Hi Mona. Yeah the question, “what do you do?” certainly takes on different perspectives as we age. When we are younger we take on all sorts of roles to fit–those that are expected of us, those we think will make us happy and those we think we have to do to survive. But now I agree with you and Brian Andreas, doing things just because they feel right is a good way to go. And I love that idea that they might not make sense or make money but they are the real reason we are here. Thanks for sharing that. ~Kathy
I know you are focusing on writing, but you raised a broader general issue of identity. How do we identify ourselves? We all have various roles in life. Some are a given, like son or daughter. Some we create, like writer. I’ve found in my life that roles come and go and evolve. I would become so attached to and identified with a role that if it began to fade, it felt like my whole sense of self was threatened. Now I hold the roles more lightly.
I loved this post because it speaks to the fundamental question — who am I? And a related question — who gets to define who I am? The answer to the second question is easy — only you. The answer to the first question has been the subject of meditative inquiry for centuries!
Hi Galen! Nice to hear from you! And yes, the topic of identity is behind all this post. But it’s such a big topic I decided to take one tiny slice of it related to my writing. Maybe I’ll tackle the BIG one next…so many faucets! Plus as I believe you’ll agree, we are so much more than our “roles” or labels aren’t we? But like our favorite clothes those roles sometimes feel a part of us and add to our sense of self–true or not! Of course that is something you write about on your own blog all the time! Thanks for your thoughts as always. ~Kathy
Your post – as often – is very recognizable and timely for me, Kathy. I’ve been struggling with the “not writing” part for years. More in the sense of articles and a new book. It’s been six years… I just don’t have the energy, the inspiration, and the time for it now. Yet, I keep writing my diary (for almost 35 years now), blogs, and messages to others, which is the only writing I perform.
I was going to answer your title question with: “When life throws more important or exciting things your way.” But then, I also agree that any writing counts to feel like a writer. And I agree with the constant thoughts we, writers, have and the fact that we want to jot it all down. I call it head writing. So, I guess “Once a writer always a writer.” 🙂
On the other hand, despite having graduated and owning a diploma as a teacher, I had to stop calling myself that after 20+ years of not actually teaching. With every border crossing in the past, where forms ask for your profession, I had to swap “teacher” for “writer”. And that was that.
Hi Liesbet! I wish I could tell you it gets easier as you age but I can’t. Of course, as I age I don’t “care” quite as much as I used to…I’m not “driven” as much…but as this post reveals I still have my doubts. But regardless of how much you produce…you are most definitely a write…and I would even say a teacher just a different version. Maybe that’s what really happens, our titles and labels evolve as we do into something new and perhaps even better. We’ll see as long as we keep “noticing” right? Thanks for your thoughts! ~Kathy
Thanks for “reaching for the words”; I enjoyed your post and your evolving thoughts. And I agree, AI can not replace a human’s experience!
Hi Marne! Thanks for letting me know you are still out there! While I still have a lot of you on my mailing list I can’t know who all actually bothers to read my posts. Definitely a matter of faith! I’m not going to “give in” to AI but I’m not above seeing if I can use to for good. ~Kathy
I love that you included AI in this post, as it is an added layer.
I’ve always considered myself a writer, even though I’ve never written a book. I’m a writer because I can write (and do so daily). But even in those quiet years when I was writing papers for college or lesson plans and not pleasure or self-discovery, I considered myself a writer.
I only produce a half dozen paintings per year, but I’m still an artist. After I retire, I’ll still be an educator.
What struck me in this post is a reminder of how programmed we are to identify so closely with what we produce. In capitalism, everything and everyone is assigned value according to how useful they are, and how much they produce. I struggle with this. It’s a battle with self to just BE, and not be DOING.
Thanks for the thoughts, and for everything you write, no matter how often.
Hi Jamie! Yes. I thought it would be interesting to get some feedback from AI on this. Sort of a “if you can’t beat them–join ’em” thing. AI not going away so how can we use it for our own benefit. And yes, that productivity haunts us all I think. Our entire culture raises us to be “productive citizens” and anytime we veer from that path it feels awkward. Maybe that is the real challenge in retirement or at least in this 3rd or 4th act of life–learning just to BE. And thank you for your encouragement. ~Kathy
Ha. I just started calling myself an artist. @AnnKellyart. You can call yourself whatever you want to be. I called myself a teacher for a while until I stopped doing it. Yes AI is going to impact everything. It will be interesting to write about it as it rolls out. And then there is a time to retire from your job. Are you still an X after you retire? I find most retired people till hold on to their pre retirement role identify. Nurses, teachers etc. So are you a retired writer? Or not retired writer?
Hi Ann! Nice to hear from you. And I completely agree that you are an artist. I’ve seen some of your work and love it. And regardless of whether you still claim it…I’m thinking of you as a teacher too. I think some of our titles are just layers that help define who we have become. As for me. I’m not a retired writer even though I do often think of myself as retired these days. Hmmm…maybe a blog post in that! ~Kathy
I noticed that I am glad you are a writer and that you chose to write this piece. It’s good to “hear” your voice. I missed it!
Hi Deborah. I must also confess that it is nice to know some people appreciate my voice if and when I decide to share it. Thank you! ~Kathy
Happy to see you pick up pen and paper …or clack on computer keys again . You will ALWAYS be a writer in my mind.
Hi Cheryl. Thanks so much for your encouragement. :-). ~Kathy
Very thoughtful and helpful to the many of us who don’t need to make a living from our writing! Thanks.
Hi Nancy! Thank you and making money is not a requirement for being a writer! Write if and when we want to! ~Kathy