How to Deal with Impostor Syndrome in Writing

I didn’t want to write about it until it actually happened, until it was made real.

I published a short story. It’s titled “Waiting Room” and it’s featured on the website midnightandindigo.com.

“Waiting Room”

This was a milestone for my writing career, as I was paid for this publication. I haven’t been paid for writing fiction since I was 17 years old, when I wrote a short story that won second prize in a competition and was published in a literary magazine at the local university.

As soon as “Waiting Room” went live on Midnight and Indigo, I took to sharing it on all of my social media channels. I was quickly inundated with praise by friends and family on Facebook, and even from my work colleagues that follow me on LinkedIn.

One of the best compliments I could have ever gotten came from my boss the morning “Waiting Room” was published, when he said he had a “driveway moment” – he had to finish the story before exiting his car to go to work. Cloud 9 could not even begin to express what I felt from everyone’s positive feedback.

And yet…

And yet despite the praise, despite the monetary compensation and the satisfaction of seeing my writing displayed on a website, I couldn’t let go and truly enjoy the moment.

I couldn’t let go because a little voice kept going off in the back of my head, warning me not to get too excited, to not celebrate this moment as loud as I possibly could.

In this moment, when I could still find the negative when virtually everything else was going right, I knew I suffered from impostor syndrome.

Impostor syndrome is an insidious little gremlin that refuses to let me experience pure joy. Behind every ray of sunshine, every silver lining, impostor syndrome is waiting in the wings, ready to usher in black clouds and fill me with worry and anxiety.

Oh, you got published? Weren’t you supposed to hear back in early summer?

If they waited until August to accept you, they must have had to fill a quota.

Someone with a better submission must have gotten accepted somewhere else. That’s why they deigned to post your second-rate writing: they were desperate. They’re a new publication after all – they need the content.

You’re only published on the website? If your work was truly good it would have been published in the paperback version.

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

What compounds my anxiety was that I truly thought my short story wasn’t that good. That it was flawed and needed more time.

In the winter I shared “Waiting Room” with a local writing group, hoping for encouragement but instead was met with cool indifference and disappointment. Members were quick to point out semantic flaws and criticize my writing as being too sparse and taking too long to get to the point.

And I believed them. After the critique I truly felt like my writing was pedestrian, that it was Mickey Mouse. I was foolish to share it in its current state.

I sat on my feelings about the lukewarm reception of what was deemed an undercooked story, and I devised a comprehensive spreadsheet of all the criticism echoed during the writing group.

At one point I even considered rescinding my story from Submittable, convinced that I had jumped the gun and was naïve to think the story was even close to being complete.

The day I was to write the revised draft, I got the acceptance message from Midnight & Indigo.

After doing mental cartwheels for 5 minutes (I was at work when I read the news), impostor syndrome reeled its ugly head to put me back in my place.

Ohhh….how lucky are you?

Even with all its flaws, you still get to be published.

Imagine how much BETTER it would have been if you made those changes?

You could’ve been published in the paperback.

But you rushed it. You’re a hack. A hack that got a lucky break.

Now you will never know, and you have to sit and look at this flawed product you’ve given to the world.

As usual, the voice is harsh and critical. But I always listen; what if it’s right, I tell myself. Had I jumped the gun on “Waiting Room”? Had I prevented myself from crafting the best story I could have possibly written?

And that’s when I have to stop myself. Because Imposter Syndrome is a state of mind, but it’s not reality.

Very rarely is there an actual person that will stand behind you, tap you on the shoulder and say “Sorry. There’s been a mistake. Please return everything we’ve given to you and forget every nice thing that you ever heard. They’re all lies.”

One thing that’s hard to fake is feedback on writing. Most people, if they even bother to read a piece, won’t give any notes. I’ve shared my YA manuscript several times and was met with radio silence.

So if a person goes out of their way to approach you and tell you that they liked what you wrote, you take the damn compliment. It’s real, and no one has the time to shower phony praise on something they haven’t actually read. So you own that sh*t.

And that’s what I tell to myself: that even if a revision would have benefitted “Waiting Room”, the version I gave to the public was still well-written and well-received.

The only way to truly combat impostor syndrome is to develop your confidence as a writer.

I KNOW I’m a good writer. I also recognize that not everyone will love what I create. But as long as I reach at least one person – as long as they see what I’m trying to do and trying to say and go “Yeah, I get that” – then it’s not a wasted effort.

If at least one person can genuinely validate your contribution to the written word, then you’re not a hack.

You’re not a fraud, not a phony, not an impostor.

You are YOU, and the best version of who you strive to be in that moment.

Don’t self-sabotage, and don’t linger in feelings of inadequacy.

You are a writer. If you were born to share that gift with the world, no one, not even yourself, can take that away from you.

So…thoughts? Do you grapple with intense impostor syndrome? What advice can you offer for dealing with it? And have you read “Waiting Room”? (You really should – it’s quite good, if I do say so myself…)

Comments are greatly appreciated below.