4 AM-azing
The soul blows up the "I’m a writer" smoke grenade and dissipates into the ether. Next, the mind quickly makes practical artificial sense of existence, adds a bit of carnality and normalcy to the mix, and invents an explanatory line that renders the beast that asked the question in the first place completely innocent of attempting an act of terrorism against the diplomacy of coexisting souls thrown together on Earth, hermetically trapped.
All this to tell you that whoever dares to ask is not a wrongdoer, but a fellow traveler in the despair of oblivion. And, yes, "I am a writer" will do, to you and them, it will certainly bring them to recollection.
The only exception to the rule is when you find yourself dissolved in oneness. If writing is the reason for the flow, you are and are not a writer at the same time and only if your typing is interrupted by a physical manifestation of one of your thoughts, then you happen to be a writer during a nano-second. In this scenario, there are a million different ways to become a crappy person. Let's say you wish your mental projection from a second ago had never happened. Not even a menacing look in your eyes, not even the way you'll tell them to go find themselves, no matter what, nothing will convince them that you're for real. They will see in you what you see in them, the source of all the existential dread, and they will find a way to drive you out of your mind if you become a victim of your own creation.
It is an honor for me to speak about people who feel shame and pride at the same time, who feel that nothing is enough to explain who they are when they say they are writers. What do you do for a living?
— Hmmm... I'm into numbers.
— Numbers? As in opioids or as in math?
— Hmmm... I'll say both — Both?
— Haha — Haha