When I’m writing, I don’t always feel like a writer. Case in point: Right now I’m typing at an ungodly hour and hoping that the words come stat. I’m aiming for more shut-eye than style and would very much like to retire for the night. I can’t help but think that if I’m not enjoying this process—if I’m always looking to the result rather than the experience—what gives me the right to claim anything as passion?

There’s a certain pressure that comes with naming a passion, even more so when it’s turned into a title. That last syllable, the telltale -er (of writer, singer, dancer, you name it), seems to imply both constancy and expertise. Both are somewhat intimidating. Both demand time. So I’ve always been critical of those two elements, particularly when it comes to my writing.

For starters, I’ve never been the type to write for pleasure, no matter how much I have wanted to. I’ve never carried a journal around, never finished a blog past a first entry, never wrote poems or stories or fanfiction unless asked to. Something scares me, stops me from putting pen to paper without having the pitch validated. Every opportunity to get that mandate has been a huge decision for me, with joining each publication I’ve been a part of as a step outside my comfort zone.

But after getting a piece primed and ready for publication, sometimes I don’t share what I’ve written. Having my thoughts out there gives me the jitters. The select few that make it onto my feed are ones that I’m proudest of. The rest make me painfully aware of how much room there is to grow. Though that can serve as motivation, I know, too, how paralyzing that thought can be. Expertise is a bar that grows ever higher—and it’s easy to grow tired of catching up.

Catching up takes work. Writing is work. I think of outlines on rides home and dull events so I don’t have to face a blank page. But I still do, to an extent, every time I hunker down and try to get ideas written, every time my mind pulls out all the stops to make the words sing. The grind is hard to love, even if the payoff isn’t, though the latter is never guaranteed.

It’s especially inspiring, then, when those newer to the game declare themselves writers. And on the opposite end, when those who’ve spent more sweat over it than me are still proud to be playing it. Some might think it presumptuous of those starting out, or those struggling, to speak for the craft. But coming from me—one who’s always been hesitant to stake such a claim—using that title is up to them. The label pressures me to a halt. It gets others going. Who’s to say we can’t use whatever works for us?And whatever the craft in question, I’ve realized that passion isn’t all sunshine and rainbows and carpe diem typography. Passion lies not in smooth sailing, but in the rockiest terrain. If you didn’t have to fight for it in some way—whether by soaking up knowledge, disproving naysayers, or getting over your own self-doubt—it wouldn’t be passion. And chasing it asks for perseverance rather than perfection.

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