I sauntered into the Hybrid Warehouse full of confidence. My dreads were piled into a messy updo that stuck out in all directions. I’d poured myself into a strapless, brightly patterned jumpsuit and accessorised it with flamingo pink earrings that clashed artfully. A loud orange bolero completed my look (because this babe never bares her tuck shop arms). My entire vibe screamed, ‘I dare you to ignore me.’
Nobody got the chance to overlook me, because I was the first to arrive. My plan to avoid the afternoon traffic worked a little too well and I was 45 minutes early. The kind venue owner let me in anyway. We chatted about why I was there (an information evening for authors and wannabees, hosted by a publishing company). He asked which category I fell into. I admitted I was very much a wannabe who hoped to be promoted to the publisher’s stable of authors, preferably sooner rather than later.
Because we were the only people in the room, I gave the owner a rundown of my story. He listened attentively and said it sounded great. Then he invited me to share it on his podcast. I was so disappointed to have to turn him down, but I explained I couldn’t go around telling the story I wanted the publishers to consider because then nobody would want to read my book.
Before the other guests arrived, I carefully chose my seat. It was in line with a good breeze so I didn’t have to wear my mask, and right in front of the platform bearing a mustard-coloured comfy-looking couch I assumed the host would present from. When people I recognised as fellow Peter Cowan Writers Centre (PCWC) members wandered in, I waved and said hi. Pretty soon the long table was full of people I vaguely knew, all looking forward to hearing the process of being offered a contract and what happens next.
My confidence started to wane from the moment the presenter began speaking. She gave her talk from the bar end of the room rather than the couch stage. Now, despite all my carefully considered plans, I was at the wrong end of the table and struggling to hear over passing traffic.
Then I realised four of the people around me were from the Emerging Writers Program I’d applied for the year before. The sting of not being selected resurfaced. I pushed it back in place with what I knew to be true: they could only choose 20 people across all of the metro area (of which up to five might be from the PCWC), they wanted a mix of writers and genres, I was new to promoting myself and didn’t know how to write a blurb or synopsis, and perhaps their stories were closer to what the selectors were after for that program than mine.
That sliver of remembered disappointment accelerated my undoing. By the end of the event, I felt like I was wearing a neon yellow shirt with the word Imposter emblazoned on the front and surrounded by flashing lights. How dare I wander into a professional learning evening as if I had earned my place? What was I doing, mixing with published authors? Who did I think I was, approaching a publisher afterwards and asking if submissions ever get second chances? I stuttered and paused my way through my questions, positive my face was as pink as my earrings and wishing I’d worn black and tied my hair back instead. Thank goodness I’d only given her my first name, not my last.
I drove home feeling defeated. I’d learned some fascinating information about the world of publishing, but who did I think I was, turning up as if I could write well enough to even consider submitting a manuscript? Surely they’d just read it and laugh. I decided if I did ever submit my story, I shouldn’t ever tell anyone I had, so I didn’t have to later admit it’d set a new record in rejection letter speed.
Halfway home I turned off onto the coast road, and straight into one of WA’s impressive sunsets. A brilliant yellow sphere sat suspended at the ocean’s edge, surrounded by a shimmering haze that blended the sea with the sky. As the sun lowered, the parts of its rim touching the ocean disappeared as though the salt water was dissolving it. Within ten minutes it was gone. Then the aftershow started. Bright pink beams speared through a golden glow that hovered just above sea level. The sky in front of the car darkened from light blue to dark denim to inky black. Travelling toward the darkness, I could still see the pinks and oranges of the sunset on the periphery of my vision. The wonder of the sunset was a fascinating experience that echoed my head talk: there it’s still light, here it’s dark.
The sky show was a wonderful distraction that got me thinking along other lines. I knew Imposter Syndrome was common among writers. Now I also know it’s stolen a strategy from the TV show Get Smart and will show up when I least expect it. It’s not lost on me that I’m a writer blogging on a worldwide forum about not feeling like I’m a good enough writer to play with the big kids. But, hey, I didn’t make the rules about Imposter Syndrome. I did however begin to think maybe I could subvert them somewhat.
As I drove, I imagined creating a clothing line labelled Imposter. Marketed to writers, it would consist of brightly coloured clothing all bearing the brand name. I wondered how many writers would turn up to an event already declaring themselves the way they often feel, and how people would treat those willing to out themselves right from the start. Would they accept them as they are, admit to feeling the same, or shun them for their honesty?
What if I designed a shirt that worked like a heat-reactive colour change one, but instead of being based on body temperature, the lower the writer’s self-belief dropped, the more the word Imposter brightened? Wouldn’t it be interesting to see how many Imposters were in a room by the end of an event?
Meditating on sometimes being daunted by everything that goes into the journey of writing was a wonderful distraction. I still feel like a fake, but I know it will pass. Previous encounters have proven that. But I’m still writing – and sharing on a public forum, even if it took me a couple of weeks to be brave enough to upload my words! Here’s to me for keeping going. And here’s to you, too. I hope something in this post inspires you to keep writing, or whatever it is you do, knowing you’re not alone in how you might feel.
P.S.: Anyone want a t-shirt?
A Glorious Mess 