Who do you think you are calling yourself a writer?

A tale of Imposter Syndrome and standing up to "The Boss"

Imposter syndrome is the persistent feeling of inadequacy, where a person feels they are not good enough despite evidence to the contrary.

I’m a writer.
But why do I have such a hard time believing those words, let alone saying them?

I recently finished a six-month process of developmental edits on a memoir manuscript I’ve been working on for years. This is my fifth draft—around 110,000 words. The first draft was nearly 300,000 words, which I revised, cut, and shaped over and over again.

I’ve written op-eds.
One of my essays was performed at Brava last year.
I’ve contributed articles to Pin-Up Magazines.
During my undergraduate years, I wrote dozens of research papers, which I keep as souvenirs. I even wrote a 100-page ‘treatment’ journal about my experience visiting the Crow Reservation in Montana, which a professor once suggested could become a screenplay.

I’ve written short stories for my college literary magazine, and when I was younger, I filled journals with poetry and long-form entries. I was also a prolific letter writer back when pen pals were the norm. I sent long, heartfelt letters to friends when I lived abroad. As a child, I wrote myself into adventure stories and even penned a play that starred my best friend. I rallied the neighborhood kids to perform it.

And now, I have a Substack. I write newsletters and share them with people I’ve met through writing circles—other writers.

Yet, somehow, I still struggle to call myself a writer.

If you look up “Imposter Syndrome,” my picture should be next to the definition.

Maybe it’s because I work in academia, supporting those whose job it is to research and publish papers in journals with names like The Lancet. They write articles for The Financial Times, The Daily Beast, and The Atlantic. They author textbooks, memoirs, and nonfiction works. They are interviewed by National Geographic, PBS Newshour, and The Miami Herald.

Those people are writers.
But me? An academic coordinator? A writer?
No way.

That’s my inner critic talking. Also known as “The Boss,” a collection of voices from my past that have always tried to keep me down. The voice says, “Who do you think you are, calling yourself a writer?” Now, go back to ordering office supplies and make sure we have enough coffee, tea, and creamer for the faculty. Oh, and don’t forget the copy paper.

“Yes, sir… or is it ma’am?” I’m never quite sure.

But there’s another part of me—a part that remembers my original dream. The part that’s starting to fight back, telling “The Boss” to ‘eff all the way off. That part of me wants to shout from the rooftops:

I am a writer!

That part of me is seven years old—the age when I first knew I wanted to write. She had no doubt, no hesitation. There was no such thing as Imposter Syndrome for her.

She knew she was a writer.

And now, I’m starting to believe it, too.

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This kid has the confidence of a writer!

(It takes guts to wear that much plaid)

My first book:

(No, I don’t know why I drew myself as a shepherdess with sheep)