Self-Published, Still Self-Doubting: Learning to Believe I’m a Writer

Self-Published, Still Self-Doubting: Leaning to Believe I’m a Writer | By Amy Roullier.

I didn’t start writing for fame or money. Although the idea of giving up my day job to retreat to a cottage in the countryside and write full-time sounds like a fantastic reality. I wrote for two reasons:

1) The love of writing.
That deep, anchoring feeling in my soul when something comes alive the moment I let the words in my mind spill out and become real, tangible, readable. I write because it’s who I am, not just what I do. Writing has always given me purpose. Every time I sit at my laptop – like I am now – I feel completely at harmony with myself.

2) The hope of connection.
The thought that someone, anyone, might read something I’ve written and think, “That wasn’t half bad, you know.” I’m not expecting to match the brilliance of my literary heroes, but I’d be lying (and honestly, so would most artists) if I said I didn’t crave some form of validation. We all want to know our art matters.

I’ve been writing behind closed doors for decades, but it’s only in the past five years that I finally began stepping out from the shadows:

First with a blog in 2021, then by sharing snippets of my poetry on social media. I started a Substack. And in 2024, after six chaotic months pulling together pieces I’d written over the years, learning how to self-edit, attempting to self-critique (which never really works because you’re too close to your own work), and nearly throwing my laptop out the window while wrestling with layouts and page numbers… I became a book cover designer (a questionable one, if sales are anything to go by).

The point is: I self-published my debut book, Silent Reflections of a Fragile Heart, and I wore a lot of hats to make it happen.

The Painful Truth of being a Self-Published Author

But here’s the painful truth: even with a book out in the world, even with “self-published author” next to my name, calling myself a writer still feels delusional. At best, it’s a hobby. At worst, it’s narcissistic.

Unless writing is your day job, unless you’re earning real income from it, unless a publishing house has officially deemed your work “worthy,” it feels like your project is just that, a project. A way to kill time.

You can call yourself a writer, just as you have since you were ten—muttering it quietly after “Account Manager” when someone asks what you do. But you’re not a real writer. Not in their eyes.

Self-publishing might’ve eaten every spare moment you had this past year. You might’ve had to become a marketer, a social media strategist. You might’ve spent late nights researching ISBNs, debating book titles, figuring out whether to launch in the UK or US. Whether go with Amazon KDP, Lulu or BookBaby (to only name a few), how your book should be laid out – both as an e-book and printed version.

But to the masses? It’s still second rate.
Your dream remains just that. A dream. And as a self-published author, that’s a pain you have to find a way to live with.

The Myth of Validation

That’s the cruel part of self-publishing. It’s an amazing, accessible route for so many of us who’d never get through the traditional gates. But there’s no validation. No accreditation. And while I know how needy and vain that sounds but let’s be honest: all artists are needy. We’re self-deprecating at our core. We need encouragement like oxygen. We want someone—anyone—to say, “This meant something to me. Please don’t stop.”

Because we’re constantly at war with ourselves, wondering if we should stop. Grow up. Get “serious” and leave our silly little daydreams behind. Finally just adult, for f*cks sake.

Self-publishing doesn’t fix this. It doesn’t give you instant gratification. In fact, the endless grind of self-promotion, the constant hustle to market your book confidently (or pretend to – fake it until you make it as they say), can drain the very passion that drove you to write in the first place.

You have to trust yourself. You have to believe in yourself, and give yourself permission not just to write, but to release your work into the world. And then you have to hope it’s good enough. It’s all on you. And for most artists worth a damn, that’s terrifying. Because we’re already drowning in self-doubt. We live for someone else to tell us that our art is worth something.

But your art is needed. Someone, somewhere, will read what you have written and will love your words, they’ll love your art.

Self-Publishing; Persistence

I recently read On Writing by Stephen King. The man spent years being told his work wasn’t good enough. He was ignored. Rejected. Highlighted by only a few. He was turned down over and over by editors who didn’t “get it.” And yet, he kept going.

That reminded me that even the best writers were once invisible. Even they were once considered unworthy by the so-called gatekeepers. Pain, anguish, the endless rejection, the self-doubt, failing over and over again, it’s all part of the process. Finding the will to keep doing the thing you love even though it doesn’t seem to love you back; a painful, punishing, beautiful, perhaps even necessary part of the process.

So yes, I know how devastating it is to finally release your self-published book, thinking it might change something, that maybe now, the world will sit up and notice you differently, finally see you as a writer. And then… nothing. The world keeps turning. Your name is still unfamiliar. Your life is unchanged. And that can feel like heartbreak.

But Something Did Change

But here’s the thing: the journey changed you.

Remember, self-publishing is complicated and messy, with hard earned insights, and valuable lessons. You fought through the self-doubt, and gave yourself permission to make art. You chose not to wait for anyone else to call you a writer, you just called yourself one.

You marketed your book. Built something from scratch. You created something real.

And that’s the mark of a true writer. Not the publishing house. Not the paycheck. The belief. The persistence. The creation.

People may never understand what you went through. But you know. And in knowing that, something subtle shifts: You start to believe you have just as much right to be here, to claim “writerhood”, as anyone else.

And maybe, someday soon, when someone asks what you do, you’ll say:
“I’m a writer.”
And this time, you’ll believe it.