One of the most common thing I hear my friends say: "I'm just waiting for somebody to figure out that I have no idea what I'm doing."
I mean, we can all relate to that, right? Especially writers and poets. We struggle to make ourselves heard, we seek legitimacy in fields that are often not recognized for their importance or ingenuity because the quantifiable components that can yield a good piece of art or writing are constantly shifting and always debatable. You can't nail down a rubric to excellence; you have to be able to recognize the fundamentals but see how they create new and different things. And then sometimes the old standard is new again or at least it's a nice break from experimental work. We feel like frauds for so many reasons.
So why do we continue? Why do I continue? I ask myself this all of the time. All of the time. You probably do, too. I've written poetry and stories since I can remember writing. When I was a kid, I would write short stories and roll them up and put them in a little toy metal safe. When I was a teenager, I wrote on a hand-me-down IBM computer that consistently lost my data. I have more notebooks and sketchbooks then cookbooks. It's a compulsion. I don't have an answer. I justify art, writing, music with a lot of high art BS, but when it comes down to it, I do it because I like it. I read it or listen to it because it brings me joy. People don't write because they'll make money; too few of us end up paying the bills with our words.
So, are you a real writer? Do you write?
Then yes. You are a real writer.
Pursue your passion and fuck the rest.