It’s the beast that eats me.
I hear it gnawing on my aging bones when all is quiet. It follows me as I pace at night. It plays with dreams and tramples on goals. I know what it is. I know its name, so why do I let it haunt me?
Perhaps I’m the kind of dame destined to drown in ghosts.
I know I’m not the only one to suffer from imposter syndrome. It’s only natural as a writer. But lately, I question if I’ve been too loosey-goosey with the term writer. What gives me the right to call myself that? What size cajones does it take to teach others about writing memoirs and personal essays? I mean, big ones.
Psychology Today describes imposter syndrome in the following way.
“People who struggle with imposter syndrome believe that they are undeserving of their achievements and the high esteem in which they are, in fact, generally held. They feel that they aren’t as competent or intelligent as others might think—and that soon enough, people will discover the truth about them.”
This encapsulates the feeling. But it’s even more than that. I find myself envious of writers I’m fond of. Even friends of mine. Jealous that the way they tickle the keys seems so much more—oh, how do I want to put this?—refined. And I take it to heart when those I’m close with don’t respond in kind to things I’ve written. It’s not that I’m looking for accolades. I suppose I’m just hungry for validation.
So now what?
I’m not sure I have the answer to that. The more inferior I feel, the less I write. I have an unfinished book of essays I’d love to see published one day. I have the second issue of a literary journal I started two years ago that I’ve dropped like a hot ass stone. I have popular Medium publications that amazing writers continue to flock to. But here I am. Writing in bed while CNN drones on in the background whinging to the world about my lack of confidence.
I thought when I quit drinking, some of that cloud would lift. I had this notion that I’d be more focused, less lazy, more secure. But that hasn’t happened. Well, maybe it has, but my brain tries to convince the better part of me otherwise.
It’s frustrating. And it’s keeping me from my passion—which is writing for the love of it. To entertain. To make others feel. My insecurity of late is keeping me from doing just that.
I always wanted to be a writer. It’s been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember. I’m lucky that in my day job, I do just that. My friend
appeared on an episode of the podcast I co-host with — The Unfocused Writer. She was talking about this very thing. How lucky she is that she can say she is a writer. It may not be the great American novel, but it’s writing for a living.It’s a little different when you’re writing in the corporate world with structure and a specific task at hand. It’s so damn easy to lose your confidence when it comes to your own stories. This is part of what makes me such an unfocused writer. It comes from this feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’m not deserving. I’m a hack.
I realize this is part of the song and dance.
And rather than letting the beasts eat me, I can choose to let them feed me.
It’s scary.
It’s a scary thing to give in to it. I think sometimes it’s easier to hide behind insecurities. “Oh, I can’t write because I’m just feeling so blocked right now.” What a crock of horse manure. But fear. Fear is very real. The thing is, it doesn’t have to cripple you as a writer. If you figure out how, you can use it to build your strength. If you recognize the fear, you won’t be surprised when it shows up like a devil smiling at you in the mirror.
Where do we go from here? Hells bells and other stories if I know, but I’ll tell you this. I refuse to let imposter syndrome win. I can command this game board if I want to. I will continue to do what I do and try to smile with a hint of confidence when I do it. So what if others are better writers than I am? So what if others seem to know what they’re talking about more than I do? So what, so what, so what.
I’m not an imposter.
I’m a writer.
Oh, Honey, try being a musician. At least as an actor you know you’re ACTING.