You are what you say you are

Finding The Confidence To Call Yourself An Artist

It’s been a long day. It’s been a long month. Your fifth coffee wore off hours ago, leaving you jittery but still tired, and your eyes are aching from looking at screens for too long. Honestly, you would rather be at home. Yesterday’s take-out and mindless television are far less effort than conversation and social interaction. The surprising reality of your 30s is how much time you spend alone, and how much you enjoy it.

But you promised Jared you would at least make an appearance. You don’t see each other nearly as often as you’d like, with work and family getting in the way more often than not.

It’s been a while since you went anywhere that checks IDs at the door and you’re starting to wonder if you’ve forgotten how. The murmur of conversation filling the bar is off-putting, too many people talking over each other. And what is this music!? You’d expect a former drummer to have better taste.

You don’t know many people here. It’s mostly Jared’s work friends and a few people from back east. You think you spotted his sister on your way in, but that’s a can of worms best left closed. So you find a spot near the bar, where you can surreptitiously check your phone whilst not looking too awkward. How long does one have to stay at these types of events? An hour should be fine, right?

While you’re nursing a $20 cocktail, wondering what happened to two-dollar beers, one of Jared’s friends joins you at the bar, VIP band flashing gaudily from their wrist as it does your own. You nod politely as they wait for their drinks, doing the socially appropriate thing of asking their name and how they know the birthday boy. It’s small talk, nothing too in-depth. The usual set of questions for a first-time acquaintance.

“So, what do you do?”

It’s a simple, polite question, so you offer a simple, polite answer.

“I’m a web developer” you reply. Or perhaps “I work in programming”.

It’s quick, to the point. A few words, combined into a title, to describe what you do with most of your time.

You infer that the question you’re actually being asked is “What do you do for work”. In the world of small talk and polite conversation, it’s the socially acceptable equivalent of “How do you pay your bills?”

There’s nothing wrong with this question. It’s a pretty standard opening line when meeting someone new. The adult version of “So what are you studying” or “What’s your major” from your college party days. All this question really is, is a way of seeing if you have anything in common with the person you’ve just met. If there’s anything you can talk about for the next 5 minutes that you might both find interesting. A social lubricant, if you’ll forgive the awful term.

But what if…

What if there was more to this question than polite small talk?

What if our answer says more about how we see ourselves than how we want others to see us?

What if changing the way we answer this question could change more than just how we talk to strangers at parties?


I challenge you to start seeing what you do differently.

The work we get paid to do will inevitably take up most of our time. There’s a harrowing statistic that states the average person will spend 1/3 of their life at work, equating to over 90’000 hours over a lifetime. The way you spend your days becomes the way you spend a life, and when most of that time is spent at work, it’s understandable that our work can become the way we see ourselves.

It colors how we see the world, the people we know and the way we interact with them. Work is and will always be a massive part of our lives, whether you love it or despise it, you can’t get away from it.

But what about the other 2/3rds of a life?

For many of us, the way we earn a paycheck and the art we create are two separate things.

You might be paid to be a software engineer, but in your spare time, when you have an afternoon off from walking your dog or picking up groceries, you illustrate comics. You’ve been doing it for years, learning and teaching yourself as you go. It’s not something you’re paid to do, it’s not something you have ever tried to be paid to do, but it’s something you enjoy. It’s something you’re good at. It’s something that makes you smile.

So. In the grand scheme of who you are and how you spend your time, would you call yourself an engineer or an illustrator?

Why does the idea of calling yourself an illustrator feel like lying?

If you won the lottery tomorrow and never needed to work again, what would you be then?

Why is being paid to do something the important distinction here?

There is an assumption, in our society, that a person becomes “professional” when money changes hands. You wouldn’t consider yourself a professional gamer simply because you spend 4 hours a day playing Call of Duty, or a professional cook because you like to bake cupcakes on the weekends.

But when it comes to creating art, when it comes to being an artist, a writer, a musician, a poet, the line between ‘professional’ and ‘amateur’ gets a little harder to see.

“I’m a teacher but I like to paint”
“I write children’s books but I work as a medic”

What you’re really saying is:

“I’m not a real artist because I don’t make money from my work”
“I create art in my spare time, but it only matters to others if I get paid”

I’m not saying that you can’t be an artist and still be proud of the work you do. We are all more than one thing, and our art is only one part of that. But why does our art always come last on the list? Why does employment take precedence over passion?


So, I ask: at what point do we consider ourselves artists? And how does it affect the work we create?

Banksy was still an artist back when he was spray painting walls for free and running from the cops. Stephen King was still a writer when he was writing Carrie by candlelight between 12 hours shifts at the mill. And John Lennon was still a musician before the Beatles ever recorded their first album.

So if an artist is still an artist before they “make it big” or earn their first dollar, what is the difference between someone who calls themselves an artist, and someone who creates art?

Does the definition come from the person themselves? Does it come from how they spend their time? Or is there a minimum amount of work, hours, days or years, you need to dedicate to the craft before one is allowed to call themselves an artist?

Or is the title bestowed with hindsight? If you never sell any records, you were never really a musician. If you never publish any work, you were never really a writer.


The art we create and the way we choose to spend our time can be very different from the work we get paid to do. The work we produce in our own time is often considered a hobby, a minor interest secondary to our professional career. And the line between personal and professional is not only monetary, but also a distinction of merit, of importance. If you’re paid to do something, it’s more meaningful than the things you create when you’re working for yourself.

I challenge this distinction.

I would argue that someone who writes short stories in their spare time is no less a writer than a published author. Sure, talent and quality play a big part in the eventual success of any artist, but the real difference is not in how good your work is, or how much time or money you spend doing it. The difference isn’t exposure, fame, or a paycheck.

The real difference is how you see yourself.

Van Gogh painted his whole life and only ever sold one painting, but he still considered himself an artist. Dave Grohl called himself a drummer long before Nirvana. Were either of them lying? With hindsight, it’s easy to call these creators artists when you can see their talent in lights and have hard evidence of the masterpieces they created, but gold records and international acclaim doesn’t make an artist.

You create the art that only you can create. You do it when you’re a nobody. You do it for free. Some of us are eventually lucky enough to get paid for it, some spend their whole lives creating with no reward, but money is not what makes an artist.

Stop thinking of ‘professional’ artists as inherently different from people like you and me. Tolkien is widely considered the grandfather of modern fantasy, but if you met him at a party back in the day, and asked him what it was that he did, he’d likely have replied “I’m an English lit professor”, not “I write epic adventures of fantasy and wonder”.

What you do is not always who you are. And who you are can become what you do, with a bit of time, commitment, and a small change in attitude.

I’m not talking about “visualizing your destiny”, or the old “don’t think you can, know you can” attitude. I’m not claiming that the way you think about yourself will magically affect how good your work is, or instantly manifest that ‘big break’ you’ve been dreaming of. All art takes work, and success has more to do with time, commitment and effort than it does base skill or talent.

But my hypothesis is this: If you want to make good art, if you want to complete a project you’ve been working on, or find your voice as an artist, stop thinking of your art as a hobby. Stop thinking of yourself as an amateur, playing pretend while other ‘real’ artists are doing the proper work. Silence that voice that tells you you’re a pretender and start seeing your work for what it is.

You are an artist.

Let’s say that again. Once more with feeling.

You are an artist.

Don’t let society’s definition of success determine how you see yourself. No one can do the thing you do, in the way that you do it. You might not be making money from your art right now, but that doesn’t stop it being art, and it doesn’t stop you being an artist.

This subtle change in attitude can help you see the unique selling point of your work, and help you market yourself without feeling like a fraud. It can help you charge what your work is worth and avoid underselling your services from fear that you don’t know what you’re doing. Remember that even the ‘professionals’ struggle with self-doubt, and the only difference between them and you is that they found someone else who believed them when they said they were an artist.

Success comes from hard work and a little bit of luck, but at the start of the process is a commitment to seeing yourself as the artist you are.

So next time you’re at a party, or waiting in line for coffee, or picking up your kid from school, and someone asks what it is that you do, take the leap.

Tell them you’re a writer. Tell them you’re a painter. Tell them you’re a musician, a dancer, or an illustrator. Don’t tell them what you do to make money, tell them what you do! And see how this subtle change can affect how you see your work and how you see yourself.

You are what you say you are.

So start calling yourself an artist.

and see what happens.

About The Author

Franky writes things you might consider stories, and is never in the last place you left her. She writes fantasy, fairytales, and stories that hold your hand as they lead you into the dark, and can occasionally be found doing ‘real’  work behind the wheel of an ambulance. Her favourite trick is to tell you a story you don’t realise is a story until after you’ve finished reading it. Consider yourself warned.

You can find more of her work on Medium, connect over on LinkedIn, or shoot her a message to chat about anything from worldbuilding to wanderlust.