Writing off Impostor Syndrome

Joining Substack spurred another attack

Sometimes I hear voices. Well, one voice, really. It’s sort of my voice, but it’s sort of not. It belongs to my alter ego. And he’s a raging prick.

He knows exactly what buttons to push, and gets his jollies by telling me what a phony I am.

His formal name is Impostor Syndrome, but I call him Bitchy McCharlatan. I picture him as a cranky owl; he’s always asking things like:

—Who do you think you’re fooling?

—Who wants to hear anything you have to say?

—Who told you that you know what you’re doing?

He tortured me at work for a long time, but he doesn’t have as much to say about that anymore. That’s because his lies have been proven false—there’s been too much evidence for too long that I do know what I’m doing. He hates that.

On Substack, though? Bitchy loves to question what right I have to write here. “On the internet! For people to read! You delusional fuck.”

More on that in a bit. But first…statistics!

According to Psychology Today, “around 25 to 30 percent of high achievers may suffer from impostor syndrome. And around 70 percent of adults may experience impostorism at least once in their lifetimes.”

The numbers seem to be even higher among writers and others in creative fields.

“I don’t know whether every author feels it, but I think quite a lot do—that I am pretending to be something I am not, because, even nowadays, I do not quite feel as though I am an author.” —Noted failure Agatha Christie

Impostor syndrome feeds on fear. Fear of failure. Fear of not being able to provide for yourself, or maybe for your family. Fear of public humiliation. Fear that every negative thought you have about yourself may turn out to be true. (Yes, even that one.)

The worst part? It’s your own brain doing that to you. Ain’t that a kick in the head?

See if any of this sounds familiar. For your sake, I hope it doesn’t.

—“Why did you ever think you’d be good at this?”

—“You said nothing in that meeting and now everyone thinks you’re an idiot.”

—“Nobody here takes you seriously.”

—“Why did you admit you didn’t understand that chart? They’re all going to make fun of you.”

Can you imagine another person talking to you like that? I mean, maybe your mother, but other than that?

It’s hard to imagine what the evolutionary benefit of impostor syndrome might be. Maybe if you worried that the rest of the tribe was going to judge your spearing technique, you were less likely to face off with woolly mammoths and more likely to stay home for a roll in the cave with the missus.

Whatever the case, much like prodigious thatches of back hair, it’s an inherited trait that’s hung around way past its “Best by” date.

“I have written 11 books, but each time I think, 'Uh oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.’”
—Talentless nobody Maya Angelou

I always wanted to be a writer. I wrote a lot in high school and college, and not only enjoyed it, but was encouraged to pursue it. A few years after I graduated, I finally got into a creative profession where I could do it, and I’ve been at it for a long time.

But that writing is for the man, man. I wanted to write what I wanted to write. I’ve done that in various forms over the years too.

I’ve also not done it in any form over the years. During those fallow periods, I always felt depressed about not writing. It was a self-abusive cycle of fear and guilt. (Anyone want to play “Guess Who Grew Up Catholic”?)

When I discovered Substack, I read a couple of authors’ work but it didn’t even occur to me that I could write here too. At that time, it was still mostly known as a hub for independent journalists, although there were certainly other people here doing their own thing.

I wanted to do my thing too—somewhere—but I was stuck.

Now, I don’t change unless I’m in enough pain. When whatever I’m doing becomes too uncomfortable to continue, that’s when I give it up. That’s why I had to stop watching Westworld. I couldn’t take it anymore.

In this case, it was what I wasn’t doing that was hurting me. I was sick of myself for not writing.

I checked out Substack again. By now, there were many more people, posting all kinds of writing. It was exciting to see, and even more exciting to think about being one of them.

To be a writer, part of you has to believe that others will be interested in what you have to say and will like the way you say it. But things get confusing when there’s a competing voice chiming in.

A voice like Bitchy McCharlatan’s. As I was planning what I wanted to do here, he came back, polluting my brain with zingers like “Who wants to read your shit? You should see if there’s a site called Substandard.”

“I am not a writer. I’ve been fooling myself and other people.” —Illiterate nitwit John Steinbeck

Again, though, the thought of not trying was more stressful than taking the leap. So last June, I posted my first piece, with the intention of continuing to post my work regularly. It was terrifying. I felt more exposed than the cast of Euphoria.

It’s not terrifying anymore, but Bitchy hasn’t gone anywhere.

“You’re wasting people’s time. They should go read something better, by someone better.”

You see, Bitchy’s all about who’s better. He’s about who “really” deserves it. He’s about the metrics that he’s decided matter.

—“That guy has published three books.”

—“That woman has tons more engagement.”

—“That guy has 10,000 subscribers.”

—“Meanwhile, your last essay contained multiple paragraphs about urine. What are you even doing?”

Being myself, that’s what I’m doing. My joke-and-disgusting-story-spouting self. That’s the best way to fight back against Bitchy.

When it comes to creativity, if you’re being yourself, you literally can’t be an impostor. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re good, but it does mean you’re genuine. Bitchy’s powerless against that. The bright light of reality burns his tongue.

Likes are lovely and subscribers are super; I’ll take all of them I can get. But more valuable than that is knowing that I belong here. Everyone who writes from the heart belongs here. This is an impostor-free zone.

That’s what I try to keep in mind. If Bitchy ever gets brutal in your brain, maybe it will help you too.

But don’t listen to me. What do I know?