Imposter Syndrome

Most people suffer from Imposter Syndrome.

According to this article by Alexandra Benisek on WebMD, "one study found that about 70% of all people felt like an imposter at some point... Among those reported to have felt this kind of self-doubt are scientist Albert Einstein, athlete Serena Williams, singer Jennifer Lopez, and actors Natalie Portman, Lupita Nyong’o, and Tom Hanks."

We're in good company.

I feel like an imposter every time I sit down to write, especially during those initial hours when the words don't show up. They wait until I open up shop and turn on the heater. They saunter in late, haggard and hungover, trying their best to shake off the night's partying. After they chase an aspirin down with a swig of bitter coffee, they muster a courage only found in junkies to ask me for a pay raise.

On those days, I feel like a complete fake, a phony, an imposter. I watch my cursor blink while my greasy fingerprints ruin the keyboard. I wait...and I wait...and I wait. Eventually, a scene appears out of the fog but it's opaque. It takes a lot of work to clarify what I've seen. By the time I've revealed a portion of the scene, I am exhausted. It's similar to mapping unfamiliar territory, giving names to rivers never seen before, only to discover the native people named them long ago and their names are far better. They contain an ancient power my words can never access. Best I can do is an approximation, a guess, of the True name of what I've witnessed.

On those days, I hate writing. I loathe it.

The story and characters that at one time entranced me are now ghosts that haunt me. They will not leave me alone. They move coffee mugs in the kitchen. Open cabinets in the bathroom. They bother me until I finish telling their story so they can finally lay to rest.

It's too much like work.

Everything was magic before science explained it.

Every story is magic before writing it.

I wish I possessed Ray Bradbury's unwavering conviction that writing fiction is "fun" and all that, but most days I don't. I feel much more like Ian Fleming and Douglas Adams.

Ian Fleming had to lock himself in his Jamaican estate, named "Goldeneye" which I think is pretty cool, until he could put the words to the page. He would write in spurts because he thought himself "lazy and easily discouraged."

Douglas Adams' editor locked him in a hotel room and refused to let him out until he finished the fourth installment of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy called So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish.

That's the way the story goes, anyway. I'm not sure if it's true.

The fact remains that my dislike for the writing process fuels my own Imposter Syndrome, and my inferiority complex.

When I do manage to squeeze bloodied bits of the story that remain in my head, I feel as though I don't deserve to call myself a writer. Writers enjoy the process, right? Why do something that causes you pain and suffering?

Even worse, when I write a short story that I enjoy or one that my friends and family think is top-notch work, at least as top-notch as my work can be, I get the overwhelming feeling that I've somehow fooled them into believing I'm a capable writer.

Worse still, is that feeling of not being good enough.

I'm not a good enough writer and I don't deserve any praise that I get.

I put words together. That's it, my brain says as it drowns me in negative thoughts. Which, not to make light of it, is a difficult thing to do. It takes a lot of discipline and persistence, especially if writing does not come easy to you and it certainly doesn't come easy to me.

But that's the thing, isn't it? Nobody starts anything as an expert. You have to practice a ton before you get even an inkling that you might have what it takes to compose music, write fiction, play basketball. You don't pick up a cello, a pen, a basketball and immediately know what you're doing. Unless you are a savant, and chances are heavily against you here.

Some people have facilities with words, with oration, with athletics the moment they exit the womb. Others have to bleed on the strings, the page, the court to achieve some level of success in their field.

I am a bleeder.

So what if I feel like a complete fake? How I feel doesn't matter. I call myself a writer then feel guilty about it, but one thing is for certain: I write a lot. I journal, I write short stories and portions of novels, and I write blog posts. If I'm not a writer, at the very least I'm a scribbler. I scribble on any loose piece of paper. Tattooing my thoughts across its skin for all time.

The most pernicious aspect of Imposter Syndrome is not feeling good enough. You're not good enough to write this short story; you're not good enough to paint this landscape, you're not good enough to stream this video game; you're not good enough to manage this business.

Somehow, you've lucked out and fooled everyone into believing that you're capable when, in fact, you're not.

This couldn't be further from the truth. Even if it were true, that wouldn't mean that you aren't allowed to do whatever it is you're doing. Give yourself permission to dream. Give yourself permission to fail. If nobody loves you or the things you create, at least you love yourself and the things.

Imposter Syndrome runs through all fields and disciplines, all crafts and businesses. Everyone feels it at some point.

My theory is that Imposter Syndrome originates from working hard to turn a dream into reality.

The thing, whatever it is, that you fantasized about while standing behind the register at a coffee shop or laying bricks outside of a house or typing numbers into columns in an Excel Spreadsheet, is now tangible. It has texture. It's soft. It cries with the same intensity as a newborn baby. It needs to be nurtured, and that is terrifying because you are the one left to care for it.

It's also terrifying to know that it will no longer be this pristine idea. It's going to be messy and you're going to fuck up occasionally.

You have to keep reminding yourself that this is okay. That you are good enough to do this. You don't need permission. You just need drive and a bit of persistence. Eventually, your peers who had similar dreams will either give up their dream entirely or push forth into success alongside you. When you pass through the realm of dream and march into reality, you will find few people standing beside you and even fewer people waiting there to congratulate you.

That's because nurturing a dream is hard, and a lot of people simply don't have the grit to make their dreams come true. And that, too, is okay! Not everyone has to be famous or successful. Success and fame are individually defined. Whatever success means to you is the correct form of success for you.

I hope that makes sense. If not, let me give you a little anecdote. This is a personal story from my own life. Take it for what you will.

I have few heroes, but the two that immediately come to mind are my grandparents, James and Phyllis Laws.

Throughout their lives they were many things. Construction workers, substitute teachers, plant workers, plant supervisors, etc. They lived complete lives and could not be accused of being partial people; they were whole, well-rounded, and experienced in various avenues.

James wanted to be an "Earth Mover" in the Construction Battalion.

Phyllis wanted to be a "home maker."

After their first child was born, James gave up the dream of becoming an Earth Mover to provide for his family in a more secure way and to be present in their lives.

Phyllis stayed home with the baby while James went off to work. This was in rural Tennessee in the 1960s. Construction jobs were everywhere and took James all over the place. Phyllis busied herself raising the baby, singing songs to him so he would know how to speak, playing with him, feeding him.

When James returned home to his wife and baby boy, the exhaustion from the work week left his bones because sitting on a small rug in the living room of his mobile home was his entire world. His definition of success changed. Being an Earth Mover was just a job. A thing that paid money. In this small mobile home in rural Tennessee, existed his purpose. To him, success was being a good father and a devoted husband. Making sure the refrigerator was stocked and that the kerosene heaters were full during the winter.

Whatever success is to you is the right success for you.

It's hard to be an imposter when you determine the terms of your own success.

It's hard to be an imposter when you work hard to make your dreams come true.

You're not an imposter. You are a writer. You are a painter. You are a father, a mother, a caregiver. You are many things, but imposter is not one of them.

When you're feeling down about yourself and your ability, and you're about to give up on yourself entirely, remember that you can be and do anything you set your mind to. And if you won't give yourself permission, I give it to you.

Go out there. Change the world. Make it a little better and more interesting for you having been here. And I will cheer you on the entire time. We are nothing without each other.