We're All Doing Better Than We Think

Dealing With Imposter Syndrome as a Writer

Whether you’re an emerging author, a seasoned pro, or somewhere in between, chances are that you’ve looked around you at some point – at a literary festival, on Instagram, in your writing group, or anywhere other writers gather – and thought, “How come this just seems to come more easily to everyone else?”

The answer is, it doesn’t – but that’s not something we all tend to shout about. Especially when we’re struggling with writer insecurities, self-doubt, and imposter syndrome in writing.

There can be a lot of pressure on new authors and emerging writers at every stage of their career to put a kind of “corporate” look on what they’re doing. We’re bombarded from all angles with information about establishing our author brand, about the importance of networking, about embodying the very essence of professionalism in every action we take to get our writing out into the world. And that’s fair enough, to an extent: this is a profession, after all, and we should treat it as such.

“How come this just seems to come more easily to everyone else?”

But putting a gloss on the outward-facing side of the business is a double-edged sword. It sets up unrealistic expectations of what “doing it right” is supposed to look like (or feel like). Neurodivergent writers in particular often have trouble parsing the presentation from the reality (hi, it’s me; I’m neurodivergent writers), but this affects neurotypical writers too.

So, in the interests of trying to open up a conversation and make space for all the vulnerable and squishy bits that we, as a writing community, often tend to publicly deny, I want to look at some of the myths we tell ourselves about What A Writer Looks Like, so that we can all maybe give ourselves permission to show up to our writing authentically, bravely, and without fear – and maybe stop beating ourselves up for not matching an impossible ideal.

"Writing just comes more easily to other people"

Thomas Mann once said, “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for others.” And he knew whereof he spoke.

I know the writing world is replete with guides and courses and so on claiming that you can write 6 novels per year and make the Amazon bestseller lists. And, yes, there are some writers out there for whom that’s a viable strategy.

There are also some actors getting paid $40 million to act in movies. There are some musicians playing for the Vienna Philharmonic. There are some visual artists selling their work at Sotheby’s for millions.

If you’re naturally a fast writer, then maybe this is a strategy that can work for you, as long as you’re also a marketing whizz and you’ve got the time and inclination to develop an in-depth understanding of the Amazon algorithms. There are writers making a living from this, but we’re not talking about EL James-level earnings, as a rule.

The reason it looks like writing (and everything writing-adjacent) comes easier to everyone else is multifaceted.

Social media culture presents the wrinkle-free version of humanity
Humans are very good at conflating “this worked for me!” with “this is how everyone should do it!” and the two things are massively not the same
We’ve somehow managed to condition ourselves as a community to believe that struggle is weakness and somehow “unprofessional,” so we present a false front and deny our truth, which is that everyone struggles at this. Not all the time, and in varied and unpredictable ways. But everyone struggles at this sometimes, whether it looks like writer’s block, writing anxiety, or other writing challenges.

"I have no right to call myself an author/writer until [insert arbitrary goal]"

Here’s the thing: I’ve been writing since I was old enough to grip a pencil. I’ve been traditionally published for more than 20 years. I make my living exclusively from writing.

And I’m still continually insecure about my right to call myself a writer.

I’m forever half-expecting the torches-and-pitchforks mob to arrive at my door yelling, “There she is! That’s the one who thinks she knows anything about anything!” I know I’m excellent at my job, and I also feel like people should be shouting at me for having the absolute audacity. This is the fundamental dichotomy of Imposter Syndrome, and I’ve been waiting for it to go away for over two decades now.

I tell my students: you are a writer if you’re writing. That’s literally the only qualification. The rest is just adjectives.

“But I’m not published yet!” Adjectives. You’re not a published writer. But you’re a writer.

“But nobody’s ever paid me for my work!” Adjectives. You’re not a professional writer. But you’re a writer.

“But my novel sold a grand total of seven copies (and four of those were to my mum)!” Adjectives. You’re not a bestselling writer. But you’re a writer.

“You are a writer if you’re writing. That’s literally the only qualification. The rest is just adjectives.”

You’ll find, as your writing grows, that the goalposts will change, continually and without warning. I used to think I’d be sure I’d “made it” if my work got recognised by a major award. In 2021, I was shortlisted for the Arthur C Clarke Award, one of the most prestigious awards in science fiction literature. Do I now feel like I’ve “made it”? No, because I didn’t win. The goalposts are constantly shifting.

You’re a writer if you’re writing. It’s okay to want the adjectives. But don’t let them define your practice.

"I must have [X] followers on social media (and engage with them constantly)"

This is one I feel passionately about (and I discuss it in more detail here), because I absolutely loathe social media. Not because there’s anything inherently wrong with it, but because I’m naturally one of nature’s lurkers and the idea of actively starting conversations online on the regular just fills me with dread.

So I outsourced it. I recently handed over my social media platforms to a management company, and, let me tell you: the relief I felt.

It’s not me. I cannot show up authentically on social media, and as an autist with significant social anxiety, it drains my creative energy to try. I’m gradually working my way around to the idea of coming off socials altogether — and consulting with some very successful people who’ve done just that, which gives me hope — but for now I’ve passed the job over to some wonderful people who actually enjoy this kind of thing, and I’m actually getting better engagement across the board. Replies, likes, and comments are all me, and I’ll never outsource my blog or my newsletter — but all of these are my choice. Authentic, see?

"Nobody will ever take me seriously as a writer"

This one is Imposter Syndrome as well, and — while I can’t speak for neurotypical writers, not being one myself — for neurodivergent writers, it’s often backed by a hefty dose of Not Fitting In trauma. And don’t underestimate that last part: it’s an absolute monster of a script that we’ve learned over a lifetime of being treated differently.

So. Story time: RB Kelly does not exist. She’s a persona I invented to protect the part of me that has internalised this particular myth. I don’t even have a middle name (though I’m sure you can understand why I’ve invented one).

It’s Bryony, by the way. My pretend middle name. At conventions or literary festivals, I’ll joke that the B is for “Batman” or “Bladerunner is the best science fiction movie ever made,” but it’s not me making those jokes. It’s RB Kelly.

I’m an autist with significant social anxiety. I struggle with 1:1 conversation when it’s not somebody I know incredibly well, so 1:many conversations? Forget it. I panic and things get weird.

“Story time: RB Kelly does not exist.”

But both 1:1 conversation with people I don’t know very well and 1:many conversations are what happens at literary festivals and sci-fi conventions when you’re there as part of the job. So, I roll out RB Kelly. She doesn’t mind so much if things get weird. She’s a jokester; she’ll laugh it off. She doesn’t freeze up when asked a question, and she’s allowed to talk at length about the stuff she enjoys (with pure and fervent autistic hyperfixation), so she doesn’t trip herself up mid-sentence when she realises she’s been monologuing.

All this is to say: “nobody will ever take me seriously as a writer” flows directly from “nobody will ever take me seriously.” And, while I’m pretty sure that’s no more true for you than it is for me, it’s a hell of a psychological hurdle to get over.

Writing is an inherently vulnerable occupation, if we’re doing it from the heart. (And most of us are, I’d argue.) You pour a piece of yourself into every word you write, and if the world has told you that your self is lacking in some way, it’s very hard to believe, sometimes, that your words won’t also be perceived as such. This bit is so tricky for many of us, because we have to be our own greatest advocate when it comes to our writing, and I’m not sure a lot of us know quite how to do that. It’s a constant battle with our inner critic.

So, how do you show up authentically to your writing when the script in your head is telling you it’s without value? I’m not going to say that the only answer is to separate off your writer brand from your vulnerable self and let that brand be who goes out there into the world and yells, “Read my books — I have something valuable to say!” It’s worked for me, but I know that trap (see point 1 above).

You're doing better than you think (I'm pretty sure we all are)

Just know that you’re not alone in this. In the 20+ years I’ve been published, I’ve only met one (1) writer who says they don’t struggle with these feelings — and more power to her, by the way; that’s awesome. But that’s an awful lot of writers who do.

As ever, there’s a Neil Gaiman quote for absolutely everything, so I’ll leave you with this anecdote that he’s shared a few times. It certainly helped me put things into perspective.

“Some years ago, I was lucky enough to be invited to a gathering of great and good people: artists and scientists, writers and discoverers of things. And I felt that at any moment they would realise that I didn’t qualify to be there, among these people who had really done things.

“On my second or third night there, I was standing at the back of the hall, while a musical entertainment happened, and I started talking to a very nice, polite, elderly gentleman about several things, including our shared first name. And then he pointed to the hall of people, and said words to the effect of, ‘I just look at all these people, and I think, what the heck am I doing here? They’ve made amazing things. I just went where I was sent.’

“And I said, ‘Yes. But you were the first man on the moon. I think that counts for something.’

“And I felt a bit better. Because if Neil Armstrong felt like an imposter, maybe everyone did.”

How do you combat your imposter syndrome as a writer? Let me know in the comments!