I always underestimate myself. When my husband and I had the mattress factory and I ran it, I didn't go around advertising myself at the new company.
When I wrote two books in emigration, I was embarrassed to call myself a writer. Even though I'm already writing the next one.
When my husband started building villas in Bali, and we're already living in one of them, I was embarrassed to say that we have great villas, that people can rent them, even buy them.
So why was I embarrassed to call myself a writer?
The first reason was simple: I was afraid it sounded presumptuous. A writer is Chekhov. A writer is Tolstoy. People with portraits in school textbooks. Who was I to put myself in that company? I was a former mattress factory owner who'd started writing her first book about love on the terrace of a house in Thailand.
The second reason was more complicated. Somewhere inside me sat the belief that to call yourself a writer, you need permission. From someone out there. From critics, from print runs, from readers, from the professional community. You need to be recognized — and only then do you earn the right to the word.
But then I started to think: how does this actually work? At what moment does a person become a writer? When they publish their first book? When a thousand people read it? Ten thousand? When they win an award? Which one, exactly?
I'm officially giving myself permission to call myself a writer! I'm a writer! Who else would I be, when I've written and even narrated two of my own books myself.