There are moments when I believe I am a writer. In that moment I believe I am going to be a published writer. (Arguments about the value in that another day.) But should someone ask me about what I want to do, I never say writer. Then the belief becomes foolish–a bit like saying I saw a UFO over my house or a fairy hanging from my shoelace.
In written words everything is possible, and in the spoken word it falls apart. For me. Why is that?