The Debut Novelist’s Guide to Battling Imposter Syndrome

My debut novel Ponti came out this year. Alongside the excitement of publication, I didn’t expect that the feelings of vulnerability and panic that had been an integral part of my writing life would intensify. Somehow I’d hoped they would lessen, or vanish altogether. Instead I feel perishable and exposed, like a hard-boiled egg that has been shelled and left out on a counter. There is no magical, automatic end date for anxiety if you’re a fundamentally anxious and insecure person. My imposter syndrome flares up, this old fluky cluster of neuroses and inadequacies. It is bully and spoilt child, wolf and sheep, constantly trying to both push me and pull me away from the cusp of failure. My imposter syndrome is fickle, indecisive and therefore antithetical to the writing process, in which every word choice is a decision.

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Some might contend that imposter syndrome and the inner critic are one and the same, but I beg to differ. A critic implies a degree of detachment, a position of removal from which one can judge and assess a particular piece of work. My imposter syndrome is murky, generalized yet far too personal. It is shame and doubt cleaved to the breastbone. The imposter does not trust her own subjectivity and finds it hard to untangle creativity and a sense of playfulness and flow from the thickening skein of her flaws. The imposter believes nothing she thinks or feels is valid or even worth saying. To a writer, such feelings of worthlessness are silencing. If I let it get the better of me, my imposter syndrome paralyses my creativity entirely, keeping me locked in a mirthless limbo between the guilt of fear-based procrastination and the feeling of being left behind.

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Drowning in solipsistic melancholy, I berate my brain for not being able to overcome its hyper critical strictures. Other people, stronger people, put these thoughts aside. Many of my panic daydreams involve picturing other writers concentrating. Brows furrowed. Dialogue and speech tags flowing freely within their balanced and unknowable minds. They are a million times more productive and efficient than I. In the cinema of my imagination, these people compose complex, intelligent novels in work-montages set to stirring scores of classical music.

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My imposter syndrome doesn’t let me state most of my opinions without examples. I read novels by writers like Lorrie Moore, Elizabeth Strout, and Deborah Levy and I admire the energy behind them, how these books zing with life through striking details, witty bon mots and vivid descriptions. Writers like Karen Russell, Helen Oyeyemi, and George Saunders bring unerringly fresh and surreal perspectives to the everyday, with visions that border on childlike wonder. Even the writers I love who are acerbic, darkly observant, and critical of the world—such as Mary Gaitskill and Ottessa Moshfegh—have a kinetic energy to their prose; something animated, angry, alive. To me, what these writers have in common is energy, brilliant intellect, and a clear-eyed vision. Their clarity of expression comes from focus. You can’t be sharply observant when you’re rubbing tears from your eyes. On my grayest days I lack the willpower to observe or make anything up beyond the bleary bounds of depression. It’s hard to feel like your stories matter if you feel you don’t matter. Imposter syndrome tells me the topics and characters brewing in my head are too frivolous and trivial, that I lack the talent and acuity to make anything serious, sweeping, immense.

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The imposter is different from the impersonator. The impersonator is good. All writing, in a sense, is an act of creative impersonation. In the same way we subconsciously mimic the sayings and mannerisms of our closest friends, writing style is molded by its influences and it’s arrogant to assume a voice can develop in isolation. One of my favorite parts of reading as a writer is feeling invigorated by the way someone’s structured their novel, or used syntax to lend shape to something I previously felt but found inexpressible. That electric feeling when you read a line in a book and it rings out—almost sings—with truth and consolation. That’s the magic stuff we’re mining for. Writers are miners and also magpies. Sometimes we adopt and adapt the tone of the novels we are currently reading, borrow books from the pop-up library of memory and consciousness. We pick and choose not just from literature but film, music, snippets of conversation, the lovely ephemera of life—warm jolts that make you stop and think—yes, I’d like to take on parts of that voice, I’d like to gulp up some of that specialness.

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During a maudlin spell, I don’t know how to make my bad feelings productive. I retreat into the internet without engaging with other people. I’m a lurker, an expert on wormholes, and a connoisseur of clickbait. My imposter syndrome chips in and tells me I’m too easily distracted by the stupid, the cute and the frivolous to be a Serious Writer. Fuck you! I reply, furiously flagging targeted Instagram ads as offensive. Sometimes the ads work if I don’t hide them on time. I get steamrolled by repetition, hypnotized by hype. I fall for the capitalist con even though I deride consumerism at parties. I order things that I don’t need and can’t really afford, every purchase a promise of betterment. Click on this and your life will change. Buy this and be an improved person. I scroll through social media feeds and refresh my emails compulsively, peeping into and projecting other lives. It’s a modern pattern of sorrow with nothing to show for itself.

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Imposter syndrome is the snide, mean boss who does not take your mental health seriously. Are you depressed, or just lazy? Quick on the heels of imposter syndrome is the guilt of privilege; feeling fortunate not to have crying babies or children to take care of, nor chronic pain or chronic fatigue; roof over head, two arms, two legs.

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My imposter syndrome loves to come out to literary events. She watches other writers who have the self-control to stop at half a glass of lukewarm Chardonnay. Wonders how they do it, manage their anxiety so elegantly without being tempted by free wine? The canapés at these things never fill you up. I talk shop and nonsense and crumbs fall out of my mouth. Switch to Merlot when the white runs out. I once heard a comedian say it is impossible to be taken seriously with wine-stained lips. I stumble home and put my keys on the counter, look in the mirror and despair at all my front teeth coated in claret. The imposter does a drunken victory dance.

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Currently have neither supportive partner nor adorable pet. No constant human who will listen to me whinging and tell me I’m not mad. No Bichon Frise who will roll over obligingly for a well-timed photograph. I’m in a long-term, often fraught relationship with myself. Wrestling narcissism and healthy self-regard. Wrestling self-seriousness or not taking myself seriously enough. My imposter syndrome tells me I need to get over myself. How does one get over oneself? It’s not the same as getting over someone else. Back in the cinema of my imagination I’ve risen halfway through a screening of social traumas and started sidestepping my way down a row of busy seats, attempting not to trip on baggage, dodging knees, sorry sorry, sotto voce, I don’t mean to step on your toes. I’m just trying to get over myself.

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All I want to do is get better at writing stories. All my imposter syndrome wants to do is wallow and then beat me up. The internet contains a million articles full of aphorisms about how to sustain a writing life and keep generating material: show up, develop a work routine, set a daily word count goal, ignore your inner critic, etc.

On my worst days I envy former me, who had the focus and faculties to finish Ponti. I showed up, I set word counts, I did all those things. I was motivated by the fear of letting people down. I’d won a prize to finish my manuscript and I felt like it was my lucky break. If I didn’t finish writing the novel with the support and resources I’d earned, perhaps the ability to do so was truly beyond me. I was driven by the feverish bid to prove that I could do it. Temporarily buoyed by last-shot determination and the kindness of others, I locked my imposter syndrome away.

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Imposter syndrome stops me from trying to write an essay about imposter syndrome. But I do it anyway, one word at a time. I carry my imposter syndrome with me everywhere. Sometimes she’s so heavy she gives me headache and heartache. But on good days we come to a kind of truce. I admit that maybe I’d be more boring without her, but I can’t let her stop me from even trying to get better. I shut my imposter syndrome out once before and hopefully I’ll do it again, and again, and again. Faint hope like a vapor trail; squinting past the sadness and fear to follow its trace. Isn’t the writing life a work-in-progress? I’ll keep looking out for kinder ways.