My name is Steven and I’m a failed writer.

I’ve been following a thread for a few days that began with the question: Is everyone really a writer? It’s become a very erudite discussion with references to the beat generation, Allen Ginsberg, existentialism, Jean-Paul Sartre,  metaphysics and Gottfried Leibniz. I’ve not contributed  to the back-and-forth because I received much of my education at a state university and know about as much about Leibniz as I do about Coconiz . . . er, nuts. See what I mean?

Anyway, for a failed writer or one who aspires to fail, the notion of who may be allowed to wear the crown of “writer” is philosophically provocative. If one writes, but fails at it, have you ever been a writer at all; i.e. which came first, the chicken or the egg? If something is written and no agent or publisher is there to read it, has it been written at all? Aha, didn’t think about that, did you? There’s your state university education at work.

I have called myself a writer in the past. For example, I told a guy yesterday that I am a writer.

“Really?” he said. “What do you write?”

“Fiction,” I answered.

If there’s a quicker way to end a conversation than telling someone you write fiction, I have yet to stumble upon it. The guy’s reaction reminded me of Mark Twain’s encounter with a coyote in Roughing It.  The coyote was fairly near when Twain heard a sharp crackling sound and was suddenly standing alone in the desert with no living creature within miles. In my case, the fellow considered my answer with the same expression he might have offered had I approached him with a copy of The Watch Tower and the promise of eternal salvation. I, too, was quickly standing alone.

Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to such behavior. It doesn’t bother me. I have to write. It’s a compulsion that defies explanation (Sort of like oysters. I don’t understand why people eat oysters. They look like snot to me, but a lot of folks love them and I don’t force them to explain why.). Still, presenting oneself as a writer can be daunting. It unleashes a pack of wild dogs in the form of vaguely accusatory questions: What do you write? Have you been published? Where? Have I read anything you’ve written?

I love that last one. My answer is always, “Yes . . . you have.”

Mark Coker, the creator of Smashwords, recently observed that the time when a writer without an agent or a publishing contract was considered a failure is over. I certainly hope not, aspiring failed writers. I have personally put a great deal of effort into failing as a writer and would hate to lose the prize with abject defeat in sight. Mr. Coker contends that a self-published author can hire book cover and interior designers along with an editor, making a book as pretty inside and out as any coming from a New York publisher. He further suggests that most authors have to do their own marketing anyway and shouldn’t see their profit margin reduced from 85% for many e-books to 5%-10% in a standard, first-time author publishing contract. Granted, that same author will likely not become famous or rich, the chances for a Pulitzer Prize or National Book Award or an appearance on Charlie Rose reduced from infinitesimal to infinitesimal minus one. Nonetheless, Mr. Coker suggests, there are quality books by dedicated and passionate writers that deserve an opportunity to find a readership. Pishposh, I say (It’s a word — look it up.). Mr. Coker’s attitude and efforts are exactly the reason why so many failed writers give up and pursue alternative pathways to publication. Frankly, it’s a national epidemic as nearly as I can tell, and as a physician I feel a responsibility to help incipient successful writers diagnose their conditions before it’s too late. Such patients need a list of qualifying definitions —a screening tool — like those used to determine death (1. Your life stops flashing before your eyes. 2. You begin to have trouble cashing checks. 3. Your children start to fight over who gets the gravy bowl with the picture of the Seattle Space Needle on the side.)

So here is my CYCYW (Can You Call Yourself a Writer) screening tool:

1. You have published something; anything.

2. You write nearly every day.

3. You don’t let rejection stop you.

4. You value your own efforts and that of your fellow writers.

5. You’re serious enough about your writing to invite criticism.

6. You’re serious enough about your writing to ignore disdain.

7. You understand that a writer’s best friend can be the DELETE key.

8. You understand that writer’s worst enemy can be the DELETE key.

9. You occasionally wake up in the middle of the night with an idea for a story or book that you must write down; sometimes arising to begin writing immediately

10. When some asks, “Have I read anything you’ve written,” your immediate answer is, “Yes . . . you have.”

If any of you, my dear aspiring failed writers, answer affirmatively to one or more of the above symptoms, you not only may call yourself a writer, you must. It’s a screening tool with high sensitivity — 100% of writers will be diagnosed. Its specificity — how many people actually decide to consider themselves writers despite the opinions of others — is variable.

By the way, Gottfried Leibniz subscribed to the philosophy of plenitude: The best world entertains all genuine possibilities. I’m guessing that sort of attitude would have made him okay with self-publishing and I hereby ban him from membership in Failed Writers Anonymous.