Every writer goes through the struggle of imposter syndrome. It’s our main antagonist, our mountain to climb, our enemy to vanquish—though it keeps coming back, like a horror movie villain. For those who might not know what imposter syndrome is, according to the National Institute of Health, it’s “a behavioral health phenomenon described as self-doubt of intellect, skills, or accomplishments among high-achieving individuals.” Basically, we think we’re bad and we feel bad, even if that is demonstrably false. I believe it falls within the scope of the Dunning-Kruger effect (the less someone knows about something, the more confident they are, and the more someone knows about something, the less confident they are in their own knowledge/skills).
Like every writer from the beginning of time, I have felt this. I have heard praises and thought, ‘Nah, you’re lying to spare my feelings.’ I have read back my own work and my brain has told me it’s trash and I’m trash, and this story will never find its audience because the writing is bad. And that’s the main aspect of imposter syndrome, is the other people outside looking in at the high-achiever. For imposter syndrome to exist, there must be an audience of some sort, telling us we are succeeding, in order for our brains to tell us it’s a lie, and we didn’t rightfully earn any of the adulations showered onto us, nor do we deserve them.
But what is it called when it has nothing to do with the audience? What is it called when the writer themself cannot even fathom why their story should exist?
I’ve been struggling lately, unable to write, and unable to even think of a reason to write. I think of the few fans I have, who are ravenous for the final installment in my series, and how I’m letting them down. That puts immense pressure on me, of course, and causes a whole other fear of delivering the best finale of my series that I possibly can so I don’t disappoint them. I want them to be glad they stuck through all four books, instead of getting to the end and experience a disappointment not felt since the series finale of LOST, Dexter, or Game of Thrones. Expectations can make anything daunting, and in turn it can block creativity. I’m no stranger to that, of course, and it has previously made powering through harder. (I am not blaming my readers, I’m blaming my own self for creating these expectations in my readers’ stead.)
But what about my other stories? Ones no one knows about. Ones I’ve started and stopped. Surely, if audience expectations are the reason I’m stuck in place writing my finale, I should be able to work on something else, right? And yet, I sit there, staring at the blinking cursor, trying to convince myself to write, but unable to think of where to take the story next, or how to frame a certain scene. Sometimes I have the scene in my head, and yet for some reason I can’t even translate it into actual words. In order to motivate myself to get to work, I sometimes think about what I want to say with the story. What is the point of this tale I’m weaving, why is this next scene important, and how do I frame it?
I sit there and I think about this…and I think…and think…
And lately I haven’t been able to answer the question for myself. I cannot find a single reason why my daydreams should be written out, even if they’re just written for me. Because if they’re just for me, then why even write them? Why bother struggling to find the words to tell a story that I can see play out like a movie in my head? Why put these worlds on paper if it’s only for me, and I remember every vivid detail without having to write it down, since it’s so very real to me? Why write down the story I experience, unless I’m sharing it with other people? Because isn’t that what writing something down is for? The purpose of it being in physical form is because of the thought that one day someone will read it. One day, the words you released from your own mind will exist for someone else. Even journaling is often a practice in having an account of your life for later generations to learn from.
So, how do I convince myself to write down stories that my mind can’t even argue the validity of their existence? How can I dig myself out of this hole and commit to paper that which is only for me, yet I don’t need it written down for myself? How do we write something only for ourselves, when writing is inherently meant for another person to one day consume the words?
I hope you didn’t come here expecting an answer, because unfortunately, I’m still grappling with this problem. I’m still wondering what the point of writing these books is, and why my stories matter enough to commit to paper or hard drive space. I’m self-aware enough to know this will eventually pass, but this has been going on longer than my usual imposter syndrome bouts. Normally I wallow for a day or two in how actually terrible I am and how every positive review is a lie someone told out of pity.
And then I come out of it and tell my brain it’s an idiot, and people who don’t know me aren’t going to pity 5-star a book. On that note, how dare my brain dismiss readers’ experiences with my work and center my ego as the source of anything positive, instead of my hard work? The audacity of our brains to discredit people for no reason knows no bounds, and is frankly unwelcome.
But now I’m stuck wondering when the end to this feeling will come. It’s been weeks. Maybe it’s a product of the current state of the world, and the reason I can’t justify the existence of my books is because everything is on fire, and my stories won’t solve any of it (even though no one expects me or my books to). I don’t know.
All I know is that I want to write, I’ve tried to write, and yet I still sit here staring at a blinking cursor.
