What does it mean to be?
If you were expecting a simple answer, I have bad news.
The first thing that might come to mind is Hamlet’s famous soliloquy: “To be, or not to be?”
Shakespeare’s sad little Danish prince wasn’t just waxing poetic—he was debating whether or not to off himself. Which, honestly, is as dramatic a place as any to start untangling what it means to be.
The most obvious definition is existence itself. You’re alive, or you’re not. Except, even that’s not simple. Ask a scientist, a philosopher, or a priest, and you’ll get three different answers on what it really means to be alive—or dead.
But being isn’t just about biology. It’s about identity. In English, Spanish, German, and plenty of other languages, we use variations of to be to define who we are.
“Hi, I’m Cipher.”
In German: “Hallo, ich bin Cipher.” (Bin being the German equivalent of am.)
We don’t stop there, though. English, being the lawless Wild West of linguistics, lets being cover anything from professions (“I am a doctor”) to states of existence (“I am exhausted”) to things that really shouldn’t count but somehow do (“I am on fire,” which, fingers crossed, is only figurative).
So, let’s pick one of these chaotic definitions of being and run with it.
Am I a writer?
Depends on who you ask.
Professionally? No.
By trade, I’m a software engineer. Sure, I write code and documentation, and we could argue about whether that counts as writing—but for these purposes, let’s say no.
I write for this blog, but that’s a hobby, not a job. No deadlines. No paycheck. Just me, my thoughts, and a blinking cursor.
And that’s the thing about hobbies. We don’t do them for money; we do them because we want to—because something about them calls to us.
More often than not, we’re drawn to hobbies we’re naturally good at. Not because we’re avoiding effort, but because those skills already feel like a part of us.
So maybe the question isn’t whether I’m a writer. Maybe the question is: what does it mean to have a talent?
What is a talent?
People like to define talent as natural ability. Some people have to grind for years to get good at something, while others seem to just get it. They barely try, and somehow, they’re already great.
Annoying, right?
But what does talent actually look like?
Let’s take writing. What makes someone a talented writer?
No matter what kind of writing you do—fiction, poetry, speeches—you’re always aiming for three things:
Make a point. (Even in fiction—every story is saying something, whether you realize it or not.)
Engage emotionally. (The best speeches don’t just inform; they make you feel something.)
Be unique. (If I read a passage out loud, could you tell who wrote it?)
A novice might be able to pull off one.A decent writer? Two.A great writer? All three. Every time.
Think about your favorite authors.
Did they convince you?
Did they make you feel?
Did they do it in a way only they could?
If they left a lasting impression, then I guarantee—they nailed all three.
These elements aren’t magic. They come from technique—structure, pacing, emotional timing, voice. These are a writer’s bread and butter.
And here’s the thing: technique can be studied, learned, and improved.
That’s why talent alone isn’t enough. It might give you a head start, but skill is what makes a writer great.
I’m not saying naturally gifted writers don’t have skill. But talent, as we all know, only gets you so far.
If you want to get better at something—really better—you can’t just rely on instinct. You have to figure out why you’re good at it in the first place.
What comes naturally?
What doesn’t?
What could be refined?
Even the most talented people have to put in the work to be great.
Because talent, without thought and effort, will never win.
So how do people become better writers?
Two ways:
Read more. Talk more.
These two activities form the backbone of writing.
Reading teaches you to evaluate writing. As a reader, you know when something works and when it doesn’t. You feel it.
The book with a promising plot that you just couldn’t bring yourself to finish? Yeah, not great writing.
The book that kept you up all night, knowing full well you had an 8 AM meeting? That’s great writing.
The more you read, the more you start to see the patterns—not just what works, but why it works.
Talking, on the other hand, is how you develop one of the most elusive writing skills: voice.
Everyone has different speech patterns, different senses of timing, different ways of explaining things. When you talk, you naturally refine those things. You figure out what sounds right—what sounds like you.
And once you recognize your voice, it’s a lot easier to put it on the page.
What are my credentials on any of this?
Well… let’s look at the evidence.
Exhibit A: I read. A lot.
I wasn’t always a reader. Up until age 8, books just didn’t click for me. The ones I was given—think Junie B. Jones—were fine, but they didn’t hold my interest.
And then, I found Harry Potter.
However I might feel about the author now, I have to give credit where it’s due. I read Harry Potter in second grade, and after that? I was never without a book. Ever.
In the 17 years since, I’ve read over 2,000 books. That’s 117 books per year, on average. And then there was that year—the one where I hit 308 books.
(It was a dark time. Escapism at its finest.)
And that’s not even counting the rereads. Every spring, without fail, I return to Patricia Briggs’ Mercy Thompson series or my beloved Throne of Glass.
Like I said—I love to read.
I also love to talk… a lot.
Exhibit B: I never shut up.
Every family has their go-to party stories. One of ours? Cipher’s first word.
Picture it: baby Cipher, a whole nine months old (tiny, considering I demanded to be born 11 weeks early—what can I say? I was excited).
We’re at a party, and a family friend takes me into a room full of teddy bears. She starts pointing at them, repeating, “Bear, bear, bear, bear.”
And then, clear as day, I yell, “BEAR!”
Not “dada.” Not “mama.” No, no. Bear. My parents were equally thrilled and disappointed.
From that moment on, I never stopped talking.
Anyone who knows me will tell you—I will go on and on, with or without a human audience. Thankfully, I have a cat who talks back. I’m not always sure what she’s saying, but she meows right along with me, and I call it a conversation.
And I don’t just talk—I argue.
That’s how I ended up in Speech and Debate in high school. And I don’t think you’ll be shocked by the event I chose…
Extemporaneous Speaking. (Extemp, for short.)
For the uninitiated, Extemp is basically competitive speech-making. You research broad topics on national and international current events for weeks.
Then, at the competition, you’re handed a random question from that pool.
You get 30 minutes to prepare a 7-minute speech—with no notecards, no script. Just you, your brain, and whatever chaos spills out.
Once I got over the fear of sounding stupid, it was actually pretty fun.
And all of that? That’s how I learned to form a good argument on a time crunch. Because, like I always say—all good writing is an argument. (Wanna argue about it?)
So yeah—I talk a lot. And I read a lot. That alone makes writing feel natural for me.
But there’s one more thing. And I think this one really seals the deal.
Exhibit C: The Way I Think
One of my favorite conversation starters is: How do you think?
So far, I’ve found most people fall into one of three camps:
Audible thinkers—their thoughts are basically an internal podcast.
Visual thinkers—they see images, charts, even movie scenes playing out in their head.
Conceptual thinkers—they process in abstract ideas, connecting concepts rather than words or pictures.
Me? I’m an audible thinker.
I know. You’re shocked.
My brain is a never-ending audiobook, soundtracked by Taylor Swift. There is no such thing as a “quiet mind” for me.
Every book I read is an audiobook—whether I like it or not. I hear the voices, the intonation, the rhythm of the sentences. It keeps me engaged and stops me from skimming… but it also means I can’t skim, because the second I try, I lose all comprehension.
“Pros and cons,” my dad always says.
But when it comes to writing? This might just be my biggest advantage.
My internal narrator never stops, so neither does my voice. I don’t have to find it—it’s already there, running in the background, waiting to be written down.
And that’s why writing has always felt natural to me. I’m not creating my voice.
I’m just transcribing it.
The verdict?
I have a talent for writing.
But does that make me a writer?
Professionally? No. We’ve established that.
But when I look at why writing comes so naturally to me—why I need to do it—I think the answer is obvious.
The things that make me me are the things that make me a writer. And it’s not just a knack—it’s a compulsion.
I don’t indulge in grand fantasies of changing the world with my words or going down in history as some great thinker. But even without those ambitions, I feel called to write.
Writing is how I quiet the chaos of my mind. My thoughts are loud, constant, restless—but when I put them on the page, they make sense.
If that was all it was, a journal would be enough. But somehow, it’s more than that.
Because when I write, I see that my ideas do have value—if only because I have the ability to translate the complex into something clear and meaningful.
Personally, if I can’t articulate something, I can’t fully understand it. So when I can? Maybe someone else will benefit from it too.
That’s why I take the plunge and hit “publish” again and again.
Whether my writing reaches millions or sits unread in some forgotten corner of the Internet, it still has value.
I don’t write because I expect an audience.
I write because, at the core of my being—
I am a writer.
So I’ve settled it.
So what?
I have a talent for writing. I dare to call myself a writer. Now what?
If anything, this whole discussion has led me to a realization—not just about writing, but about talent itself.
I grew up being told that a talent not shared was a talent wasted.
But I don’t believe that anymore.
Yes, our talents should be used. But that doesn’t mean they have to be shared with the world or turned into some “greater good” to have value.
I see our talents as flotation devices in this chaotic, relentless sea of life.
They are the things that keep us afloat—the things we turn to for peace, for confidence, for a sense of purpose. Talents don’t just anchor us to reality. They remind us that we have worth.
First and foremost, our talents exist for us.
Quite simply, they are what we hang onto to keep from drowning.
And only when we are steady—only when we are not actively drowning—can we use our talents to help someone else stay afloat.
So sure, share your talents, let them grow, multiply them if that’s what fulfills you.
But if you choose to keep them private, that’s okay too.
Your talents are yours. And that is enough.
So yes, I am a writer.
By the nature of my being, that is one of my talents—the thing that keeps me afloat in the chaotic waves of life.
I’ll write for myself first. And if someone happens to stumble across my words and finds something meaningful in them? Wonderful.
If not? That’s okay too. That was never the point.
What are your talents?
And will you give yourself permission to be selfish with them?
I hope so. I really do.
Comments