My grandfather died on Labour Day, just a couple months shy of his 95th birthday. The family joke is that it just killed him to not have to work. Gallows humor. My family lives in that space.
He worked from the time he was ten years old. Retired at 65, but that didn’t take. Into his 90s he was still fixing everyone’s shitty car, still making soup on the back of the stove because he needed to contribute something, and trapping anyone who sat long enough in a rapt Robert Service recitation. When I was a teen, he taught me how to snare and process a rabbit. It mattered that I knew things. And he played cribbage with a sharp competitive edge. Those hands could crush yours from a lifetime of turning wrenches. Yet, the only time they shook was when he was pegging. Draw your own conclusions.
He died on Labour Day. The one day a year you’re not supposed to work.
I often describe myself in role-based language. Doug Langille is a husband, grandfather, aspiring writer, shameless technophile, and bad carpenter. But “aspiring” was a cop-out. A person who writes is a writer. A bad carpenter is just funny because I own it. I don’t pretend to be a master. I’m just someone who builds things badly. I damned well do it anyway.
Trying to Write Bakes in Failure
Goal-setting assumes I stay the same person chasing different targets. I set a goal: write 500 words a day, finish a novel, publish an essay. And then chase it. But the person doing the chasing doesn’t change. I’m still “Doug trying to write,” which means every word feels like a test I might fail.
Trying bakes in the failure. It keeps me waiting to be legitimate.
A writer doesn’t try to write. A writer writes badly first, then fixes it. That’s the job. That’s what writers do. The identity does the work. The goal doesn’t.
Identity Shifts the Equation
Identity narrows choices, shapes behavior, and makes practice feel like maintenance instead of a heroic act.
“What would a writer do today?” is a different question than “How do I make progress on my writing goal?” The first one assumes you’re already a writer. You just need to show up and do the work. The second one assumes you’re not there yet, and you’re trying to get there.
One of those feels like permission. The other feels like proving yourself.
Identity isn’t magical bullshit. I won’t manifest myself into a brain surgeon or suddenly possess a full head of hair. The universe doesn’t care that much about any of us. But I am the kind of person who shows up, learns systems, and helps others solve problems. And I own that.
Identity does the grounding.
The Cost of Faking It
I say in presentations that I’m not a teacher. Because I’m not faculty. Technically true. But someone stopped me once mid-session: “Maybe you’re not faculty, but you are a teacher.” I didn’t have a good answer for that. Still don’t.
You can fake an identity you haven’t earned. But you can also deny one you have. Both cost you something.
The identity has to be true, or it collapses. Don’t fake modesty either. Just be honest with yourself. If you claim it and don’t do the work, people notice. You notice. And you’re back to trying again.
What Would [Identity] Do?
Stop asking “How do I achieve this goal today?”
Start asking “What would [my identity] do today?”
What would a writer do in the next 15 minutes? Write badly. Edit. Revise. Probably whine and bitch about it. But write.
What would a programmer do? Read some code. Try something. Break it. Slam in some caffiene. Fix it. Learn.
Identity answers the question. You just have to show up.
My grandfather was a mechanic, so he fixed things. He didn’t wait to feel like one first. He just picked up the wrench.
You already know what you are. Pick up the damn wrench.
