This is not one of those humor pieces where the writer pretends to some experience related to the news in order to make an "amusing" point.

Certainly the writers couldn't pretend like it never happened.

Derrida didn't propose that writers pretend to be dead.

Nowadays, older writers sometimes bring in their sons or daughters, and pretend they're partners, to pitch meetings with network executives.

The writer doesn't pretend to be a prophet who can foresee the nature and shape of an actual time to come.

The writers are pretending to examine the situation, but don't.

David Treuer, "Going native: Why do writers pretend to be Indians?"

Many writers pretend that they don't read reviews of their books and that in particular life is too short to subject themselves to reading bad reviews.

The term "Anonymous" suggests, perversely, a measure of honesty: the writer is not pretending to be anyone, but acknowledges he is "no one."

The writer of this "Life" pretends to be Aurelian, St. Martial's disciple and successor in the See of Limoges.