All Writers Have Imposter Syndrome

I don't know what to write today. Sometimes I feel like I am not meant for this even though I feel so so profoundly that I am. Writing when I'm sad, angry, or happy feels good. I have proof other people like what I write. I write poems, and people tell me I saved their lives; I have unedited, sloppy (at least I think) work published in literary journals, and I have hundreds of creative stories I wrote in university with high marks and even higher affirmations from my professors about my gift. I wrote a whole play and watched it performed in a theatre I grew up going to; a theatre people from all over the world come to, and people laughed and sighed and sang my praises.

But this…gift, or whatever it was that drove me, that had me believing people wanted to read my work no matter what I said, is buried deep under my own self-doubt and fear that what I have to say is either not good enough, won't generate enough buzz, or provide me with a career or that people will straight out think I'm an imposter. I feel like, somehow, the pain or power that fuels the words that pour out in sometimes such a blunt and violent manner will be refuted by an audience who thinks I don't have any right to feel the things I feel. Maybe, that's because I don't think I have the right to feel sad about anything. I am only allowed to feel resilient.

All writers are resilient. Anyone with half a mind and shred of hope is putting the best and the worst out there for strangers to love or hate. Or for nobody to see at all.

I hope I figure out how to be a writer for real. Until then, I'll keep filling up this void.