Last night I went to a writer’s group meeting. One of the things we do is read a few pages of whatever we’re working on, and the others critique it – as gently as possible. I read chapter 1 of ‘Journey’ for the group last night. The response was unconditionally positive – there was very little by way of critique, mostly just glowing appreciation. Very nice. I was quite embarrassed. So why do I feel like crap and a total sham today? Imposter Syndrome.
Logically, objectively, I know I’ve come a long way in my writing abilities. I’ve put a lot of words down, I’ve done several very successful edits on my works, I’ve even sold a number of copies of my previous works. But I still feel like someone is going to knock on the door any minute now and tell me that the jig is up, they know I’m a fake, please hand over the pen and the laptop. I’m a wreck – it even triggered a depression episode.
But why now? I mean, I’ve never had this problem before. Any show I’ve ever been in, any picture I’ve ever produced, song I’ve sung or design I’ve created – whether I had a good reception or a bad one, it made very little difference to me. It never made me doubt myself or wonder why anyone could praise the work. My ego is roughly the size of Texas, so acclaim – no matter how great or small, whether deserved or not – has never shaken me. One important exception – I received a standing ovation for only one performance I was ever in (Scrooge in A Christmas Carol) – and that shook me to my core. So, what’s the difference?
It has to be the writing. I have always been terribly nervous to hand anything I’ve written to anyone to read. I have to very carefully remove myself from the area while they read it – to keep from hovering over them while they read. Nobody likes that. Historically, I would be elated by a good review, and angry or depressed over a bad review of my writing. But the game has changed. I actually wanted the group to snip and snipe at my writing – the fact that they thought it was wonderful confused me. And I think I may know why I felt that way.
Writing, for me at least, is a very personal – even intimate – artform. Theatre is performance, pure and simple. I’m one stage removed from the audience. (Pun not actually intended.) The same goes for the visual arts. But in writing, I let people into my head, I let them see what I think, what I feel, to grasp what’s important to me. And now that I have committed myself to becoming the best writer I can be, it becomes even more intense – because I have to be totally honest in my writing. When people reject my work, it hurts – of course it does. I’ve prepared myself for that. But when they praise it, when they praise me for it – I don’t know what to think. I know how rough the thing is, how much it needs to be edited and changed before it’s ready for publication. They don’t seem to see this. Am I wrong? Are my ideas off base? Not clear enough? Too clear? It’s perplexing.
Maybe this is why I feel like a fake – an impostor – when I’m praised for my writing. Don’t get me wrong – it feels good to have my work recognized. I’m happy when people like it, just confused. I sometimes feel like they are just being overly nice, or they don’t know good work from bad, or sometimes that they’ve confused me with the actual author of the work. In any event, it feels like they can’t be talking about my book, or it couldn’t be me they’re referring to. The farther I travel down the road marked ‘author’, the more I realize I don’t really know what I’m doing. I mean, I used to know – I knew how to write, the same way I knew how to draw or sing. But the more I work at this art, the more I realize I know nothing. I’m guessing my way from point to point, like a neophyte navigator. I remember that feeling very well – grim determination coupled with stark terror that I’ll get it wrong. That I’ll get lost.
Is all art this way? Is my entire life going to be this way? Never any certainty, never any final mastery? If so, then I guess I can expect to feel this same way about every form of art I focus on. That’s a bit frightening. But it’s the same kind of frightening I feel when walking into a new classroom or walking toward a strange group of people with that questioning look on their faces. Not the kind of frightening like walking through a dark wood at night. This is a terror of the new and strange, not the fear of bodily harm. The same kind of fluttering panic I get just before the lights come up on stage. I know this fear, and I welcome it. It sharpens my focus and lends me energy to do my best work. Yes, let’s think of it that way.
There’s a TED talk about impostor syndrome by Mike Cannon-Brookes that I think everyone should watch. He makes the point that anyone who’s doing something important will eventually, and maybe consistently, feel that they’re in over their heads. That they’re just faking it, and someone’s going to find out and blow the whistle. The best you can do, he says, is not to run away – just keep the conversation going. Just keep pushing. None of us really know what we’re doing – but that’s okay. Keep going, you’ll find the way.
Be well.
bcd