Welcome to Write Wrong Episode, a podcast that talks about writing from the point of view of someone who’s been doing it wrong for far too long. 

I’m Cortney Hamilton, and this is episode 008. Today I’m talking about: 

 

Embracing your Imposter Syndrome: Because it’s true, you don’t belong here. Now, please leave.

 

But first, a tip, because if you do abandon this episode, at least you’ll feel like you haven’t wasted your time.

 

You probably know to tie a small piece of brightly colored fabric to your luggage handle when flying to tell it apart from other bags. But I also recommend bringing an extra piece of that fabric. That way, if you’re carrying contraband and your bag is searched, you can tie the fabric onto someone’s belt loop and give the TSA guy the side-eye to cast blame before bee-lining out of the airport. 

 

 

Imposter Syndrome! It’s common. It’s normal. Because, sure, a small part of you might feel worthy, but it’s a groveling worthiness that has no right to assert itself in front of others.   

 

Now, if you don’t know, Imposter Syndrome is the feeling you get when you doubt your skill, your dedication, and even your achievements and feel like people will expose you as a fraud. Anyone can get Imposter Syndrome, not just writers, but I think it’s common among writers because acceptance of our work is largely based on subjective opinion that often manifests in that one review on Goodreads, from numbnuts69 who says something idiotic like he didn’t like the cover and the story is ‘trying too hard.’ “What does that even mean, numbnuts? The cover’s not trying too hard. You’re trying too hard!” 

 

Also, it’s not like a heart surgeon stands at an operating table, scalpel in hand, wondering: “Is everyone cool with this? I mean, I’m gonna cut this guy’s heart. Okay, just stay calm, Rick. You had eight years of medical school, you’ve earned the right to cut his heart, damn it.”

 

It’s the rare writer who doesn’t feel like they’re an imposter. But what those poor bastard’s who don’t have Imposter’s Syndrome don’t know is that they suffer from Imposter’s Imposter Syndrome or the situation where a writer wishes they could feel like an imposter if only to bond with all the other people in the room who don’t feel like they’re good enough to be in the same room with that person. 

 

So it can be difficult, especially when you’re starting out and doubting yourself because typically you’re getting no opinions from others on your work yet. And the only opinion you are getting is from your own judge, which, if your’s anything like mine, has a habit of telling me to get comfortable with failure all my life. 

 

Now, I still suffer from Imposter Syndrome. And not just when I undress.

 

Just this very morning, I woke up not wanting to record this. All I could think was, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t have anything to say that’s going to be helpful to people. Even the helpful tips I steal from the internet and provide at the beginning of each episode are a joke and not one that’s not very funny. 

 

I mean, I’m hosting a podcast for writers and distributing it among a huge amount of podcasts by writers who have actual books published, have far more helpful things to say, and do so with pointed efficiency. Who am I to even pretend I can speak with any insight about writing without harboring a severe hatred for the very person who is under the delusion he has insight at all? 

 

You’ve probably heard some form of that voice in your own head. And I think we give it so much weight because a lot of times there’s a kernel of truth in that judgment. It’s true, I don’t have a published book. It’s true, I struggle every day with my writing, and I’m not pumping out thousands of words a day. Sometimes, not even tens of words. And it’s true, more often than I’d like to admit, I slip into bed, hug my pillow, and think about the years I’ve wasted trying to do this thing I love that I don’t want to do today. 

 

But here’s the thing, at some point in our lives, and brace yourself, we’re all going to die--some sooner than others, and others not soon enough. You know who you are. And will I think on my death bed, as the nurse is trying to wrangle the straw into my mouth for what will become my last dribble of water, as I call out to Jerry my famous Nobel prize-winning son who only exists in the sepia-fantasy of my addled mind, do I think I’m going to say to myself, ‘if only I didn’t do the podcast’? 

 

And you can put anything in there. ‘If only I didn’t go to that writer’s conference.’ ‘If only I didn’t talk to that stranger.’ ‘If only I didn’t try to become a writer.’ 

 

Nobody says these things. Even verbalizing this lame death-bed regret sounds ridiculous. In fact, a poll of people in their 80s and 90s said the number one thing they regret most in their life is that they worried too much. And that is what Imposter Syndrome is. Worrying about what others think about you. 

 

So I’m going to talk about a couple of different types of Imposter Syndrome and how to deal with them and judgment as a whole, which can keep us from doing what we want. The honest truth is it’s an ongoing battle. And like anything, it’s a practice. And the more we practice, the better we get at getting over it. 

 

So here we go: 

 

One tactic I use to combat I.S. is to pretend I’m someone else. I know this may sound like I’m encouraging a mental disorder and that by conquering Imposter Syndrome, I’m actually pretending I’m an imposter. It’s like a Mobius strip of fakery.   

 

But if you think about it, I’m a writer. I’ve also been a waiter (and probably will be again), and so I’m used to pretending I’m different people all the time. And since you’re likely a writer too, why not try it. Have fun with it. Pretend you’ve been cast in a role where you belong, no matter where you are. Could be a writer’s conference. Or a local writing group. It could even be when you’re hosting a podcast and giving questionable advice. 

The idea is that even if you do this, you still come through. Your experiences translate, and the way you filter them, the way you articulate them, the manner in which you express them can be beneficial to others. Now, let me be clear, it won’t always be beneficial, and it might not always resonate with people, but that’s true for a lot of things that exist like Taco Bell or Klezmer music. 

 

So when you feel Imposter Syndrome do something fun: pretend your Tom Cruise at a Scientology conference. That way, you can envision a slavering crowd hungry for your every word while embodying all the arrogant vanity of a mortal biped who thinks he’s a thetan with unlimited capabilities and yet still can’t maintain a successful marriage.

 

 

2. Perfectionism, or as I like to call it, the thing I say in job interviews when answering the question: “What is your greatest weakness?” 

 

But Perfectionism is a real but subtle thing. And I’m not talking about the perfectionism that happens when writing a novel and wanting to keep revising it until it’s perfect. That’s a whole different kind of perfectionism that can lead to insanity, and you should get some help immediately. 

 

The perfectionism I’m referring to is the thing that happens in your mind before you can even get a word down. The idea that you have to write like Hemingway or Maya Angelou or come up with a story told in lyrical prose as compelling and profound as Twilight. 

 

Perfectionism is the idea that there’s no way you can sit down and write something that everyone will want to read. So, why bother, right? It’s a lot easier to not write than it is to try to do something we might fail at. 

 

And if you’re under this delusion and suffering from Perfectionism, I’m going to free you from this hell by telling you something I hear all the time when arguing with my girlfriend: “You are not right.” 

 

You’re not perfect. You won’t ever be perfect. Nothing you do will be perfect. And if you don’t write something because you think it’ll never measure up to other ‘perfect’ writers, then you’re delaying your greatness. 

 

Because even if you don’t think you’re perfect, you probably still think you have to be good. And they say perfection is the enemy of the good. But I say the good is the enemy of the good enough. Again, I refer you to Twilight. 

 

Because what you want to strive for is not perfect. Not great. Not even good. It’s good enough. And you know what’s good enough? Getting a first draft down on paper. That’s it. Whether it’s two-hundred and fifty thousand words but needs to be eight thousand. Or it’s in five different colors with different fonts and half of it’s written upside down and in the margins, and you say screw it and publish it anyway and title it The House of Leaves. As long as you keep writing and get that first draft down, then you’re telling Perfectionism to do a triple backflip with a double-twist straight to hell. And it better get a perfect ten. 

 

 

3. Being overwhelmed, or the answer to how a dolphin feels at a rich kid’s birthday party.  

 

The task of writing a novel can be daunting. There are characters to invent, settings to describe, a plot to finesse, not to mention all those words you have to use to do it. And a novel can typically mean you’re writing between fifty and a hundred thousand words. And that can often take a while. In fact, it can take so long that it’s a challenge to keep up the momentum to finish. I know, because I have a perfectly good first novel that I never finished due to the fact that it required so many words. 

 

And often at the beginning, we’re enthusiastic. We’re jacked on our idea and characters. We’re ready to get it down on paper. And then maybe ten or fifty or a hundred pages in, we’re faced with the horrible and debilitating middle of a novel, where, much like a long and successful marriage, is one bad decision away from total ruin. 

 

When this happens, we suddenly feel overwhelmed with the thought that we still have so far to go. And insecurity can creep in. We’re not good enough. We don’t have it in us. This stupid idea is just a stale rehash of Star Wars but with lemurs. I’m just not a writer. 

 

And this is where people often quit. And by people, I mean me. It’s a lot of work to write a novel, so much work, that, if you haven’t written one yet, I don’t want to tell you everything you have to do after you write it for fear you’ll stop writing altogether. 

 

But, honestly, you should probably find out because this is where you need to decide if you really want to write it. Because we all like the idea of doing something until we have to go through the steps of actually doing it. This is why we’re not all astronauts or Kardashians. 

 

And what makes you a writer is consistency. It’s continuing to sit down every day and put words together to form a story. And you have to know that it’s a challenge to know it’s not always or mostly not always fun, but you still want to do it. 

 

There will be a lot of things you won’t like about writing. And that’s aside from the writing itself. But you’ll do them because, ultimately, even penultimately, you need to write your story. And not just because you think it’s going to win the Pulitzer or because it highlights a social struggle that should be talked about in book clubs. But because it has vampires and teenagers and lots of dry humping. And because you just want to do it even though it’s a lot of work. 

 

And if you think about doing all of that work, even on the days you don’t want to, and following the steps to get it published, and finding your readers, you’ll probably want to stop right there and hug a pillow. 

 

But the great thing is you don’t have to think about all of that. You only have to think about what’s in front of you, what you need to do today. And when you get that done, you can wait until tomorrow to do the next thing. And if you consistently do this, you’ll have a published novel. And that’s what makes you a writer. Consistency. All you have to do is think what you need to do right now. This is key. Take small bites because that will keep your momentum going when you most need it. Don’t exhaust yourself. Just do what you can do today. They say a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. I say: It also helps to have the keys to the car and a baggie of Goldfish. 

 

4. Not knowing enough before you write

 

This one can be deceptive. It’s part of Imposter syndrome, and I often fell into this as a younger man of three or four weeks ago. 

 

The idea is that you can’t write a novel until you have the right education, the right mentor, enough research, a writing group, read enough books, or at least skimmed all their summaries on Goodreads. 

  

The annoying but heartening truth is anyone can write a best-selling novel at any point in time in their lives. You can be fourteen and do it. You can be sixty-four. And you don’t need anything to do it but the desire and some sort of implement to record your thoughts. 

 

But, it’s true, writing is a craft, not some magical talent that is bestowed upon a few while the rest of us mash the keys on our keyboards like a baby demanding more juice. And, yes, some people are naturally good at it without much instruction, in the same way some people are naturally talented at gymnastics or Klezmer music. But that doesn’t mean writing is off-limits to those of us who have the desire but maybe not the natural acumen. We don’t need enough of the ‘right’ thing in order to begin to write. 

 

And this probably won’t come as a shock to you—or anyone else—but I am not naturally talented at writing. So, for me, it was easy to hide behind the excuse that I needed more education. More schooling, a mentor. A writing buddy. And, sure, some education can be helpful when you don’t know where to start or how to organize your thoughts or the basic structure of a sentence. But you also don’t have to spend years figuring all of that out before you start writing. In fact, the only thing that’s most helpful to do in order to write a good novel is to write a bad one first. Now, that’s not to say that your bad one should never get published. But it probably should never get published. And, if it does, then it’s likely because you’ve written enough words before that novel to learn what works and what doesn’t in a well-written story. 

 

My point is that waiting to learn more before you write is like waiting to learn more before you eat. You just eat and experientially, find out that a daily breakfast of Taco Bell gives you the runs. But that’s helpful, too, because you’re still learning something you can use in the future. And, yes, you could’ve learned it by reading about it, but the lesson resonates so much more when you’re sitting on the toilet with your butt going numb and your legs falling asleep. So, yes, educate yourself. But also write and try out options that could be wrong, or lessons you need to actively learn and can’t just read about, because even if you bemoan the choices you’ve made, you’ll at least know what not to do in the future. 

 

Read, learn, get into writing groups, or talk about it online. Because you belong there, but don’t use lack of education as an excuse to not write at all. 

 

5. Jealousy/competition and fear of rejection. 

 

Most likely, if you’re a human being listening to my voice, you have been or will be jealous at some point in your life. This can happen justifiably even when you think the author is a dick who writes well but karmically should be a full-time fluffer at a bonobo orgy. But there is also the jealousy that happens when you read another writer’s work, and you think: “My God, this is brilliant. This is my competition? I won’t ever write this good.” Then, of course, you judge yourself for thinking the words “write this good” when you should’ve thought “write this well,” and now you’ve thrown yourself into a judgment hole that’s as charmless and cursed as a Taco Bell bathroom.  

  

The truth is, in a world of opinions, there will always be someone better than you because that’s the way opinion works. And you want that. You want to embrace that. Because books that you think are brilliant: inspire and energize. And books that you think suck even if someone else thinks are amazing can motivate you. Because if you think you’re writing is better, then you’ll be more confident to keep writing. 

 

So, embrace your jealousy and use it for good. No one is in competition with you except you with yourself. Which is still not easy because, honestly, sometimes you can be a self-loathing bastard to you. The only thing you need to do is to make your work the best that you think it can be. 

 

Now, jealousy falls on the heels of the fear of rejection. And you probably hate rejection. A lot of people do. And, studies show, when you create something—anything, in fact—the risk of rejection rises significantly. The problem becomes when we take the rejection personally. 

 

And of course, you would. Who wouldn’t? I’ve been taking it personally. Do you know how many people haven’t listened to my podcast yet? A lot. And that’s just the ones I know and supposedly love. But, remember, no matter how much of ‘you’ you might have put into your novel, you have to realize the novel is not you—your novel is not you. It’s a thing you created. It might’ve come out of you, like a fetus fighting a C-section, but it is no longer you. And the mere act of writing it down and showing it to people means your novel will be judged. And that’s great. 

Because judgment is your friend. It’s just that sometimes, it’s that friend who gets really drunk and successfully seduces your girlfriend while jiggling your belly fat.   

 

But this brings me to the sixth thing. Which is what Imposter Syndrome and Perfectionism and all the other things are really about…

 

6. Judgment. 

 

Everything I’ve talked about so far is bonded by judgment: you know, the mental face-punching machine that mostly grabs your arms and makes you hit yourself over and over again.  

 

You will judge yourself. You’re probably doing it right now in the back of your mind while you’re judging this podcast in the front of your mind. Judgment is the double-edged sword of perception. It may come in handy to get you through your kid’s third grade dramatic reading of all the amendments to the constitution set to the dulcet shrill of recorder music. But it’s a netherworld of unleashed anxiety when you’re being judged at your own reading. 

 

And judgment is what’s really keeping us from finishing a novel, starting a novel, submitting a short story to a magazine, or even just buying hemorrhoid cream at the drug store. But we should embrace our judge. And why? Because there’s a confidence in the judge. Because judging validates our choices by condemning others. And, let’s face it, that can feel downright amazing. 

 

And your judge may not always be the harsh and godless judge who rightfully condemns a vegan for braiding their beard at the dinner table. It could be the quiet disapproving “tut-tut” over a woman bringing her toy poodle into a grocery store. Or over a Prius driver who doesn’t flip on their blinker when turning. “I can’t read your mind, Prius! Sure, care about the environment, but you don’t give a damn for road safety.”  

 

Unfortunately, that judge who effortlessly appraises others, often gets bored and turns on us. And for some reason not only do we let it do so, but we also believe what it tells us. ‘You can’t write.’ ‘You’re not good enough.’ ‘You don’t even know proper grammar.’ ‘You jiggle too much around the middle.’ 

 

We’ve all heard that voice. I can hear it right now. It’s petulant and bitchy, and it’s telling me I’m wasting my time recording this. But here’s the important thing: I know that voice very well. I’ve made friends with it. Not in any traditional sense, more like the way I make friends with a douchey co-worker who I politely chitchat with because it’s just easier to get through the work day, okay? But by understanding my relationship to the voice, I can dismiss it so much more easily. I can disregard anything it says—for two reasons: 

1. Because I know self-judgment is rarely, if ever, helpful. 

2. Because I know it changes it’s mind arbitrarily and will still sound like it knows what it’s talking about even when the topic is about, say, C-sections. 

 

And if I recognize this, I can turn the judge into something that’s helpful to me. But only if I’m practicing the translation needed to interpret what it says in a constructive way. 

 

For example, when I’m revising my novel, and I’ve crammed it with adverbs. My judge will tell me, “That’s stupid. Using adverbs? That’s amateur writer 101.” But my interpreter will tell me what he’s really saying: “The use of so many adverbs is not the best way to convey emotion and that, perhaps, there is a more visual way to express the description.” 

 

Yes, my interpreter is British.

 

And in doing this practice, in translating my own judge, helps me to interpret when other people judge my work which allows me to not take it so personally. 

 

For example, when numbnuts69 says they hate my protagonist and thinks she’s a complete loser who puts fabric on her luggage because she’s too dumb to recognize her own bag in an airport, my interpreter embraces that criticism as: “Is she really a loser? What would make Numbnuts say such a thing? What is he reading into it that I can’t see? And is this criticism more about Numbnuts or about what’s on the page?” 

 

Now, of course, Numbnuts’ comments can still hurt. I am human, after all, especially deep, deep down where I’m just baby fat wrapped in velvet. 

And what do I do if the judgment is too much or overwhelming? Easy: 

 

I curse and yell like Kanye at a Tony Robbins workshop. If it’s really bad, I punch the air or maybe take a pillow and slam it against the wall over and over again until I’m wheezing and wilting onto the floor. Because doing that releases the feeling, which is a very real feeling that’s helpful to acknowledge. Because when we don’t acknowledge it and don’t find ways to deal with it, we just swallow it where it builds and builds until one day we’re raging at a Prius who’s innocently turning into their driveway, “You’re still wrong, Prius.” 

 

Then, after I let it out, I don’t reread the comments for a day or two. I give space between the feeling I initially felt and what the person is saying. Then, when I go back to it, it’s not a surprise. I know what the comment says, so I’m not so invested in it. And I’m able to dissect it in a way that feels healthy and constructive. But this takes practice. And the more I practice the easier, or at least more constructive, it becomes.  

 

And if you’re reacting to judgment of your writing in a negative way, take some time, let it sit for a while and get the anger or despair out before coming back to the criticism. Even your own. Just remember: Judgment is always fickle and changing. It’s never helpful in its raw form. And it can help if you let it sit and cure for a while. Because you need distance from it in order to be able to interpret it in a way that is going to help you. And if, after a few days, you go back and deem that the comments aren’t helpful, chuck ‘em and move on.   

 

Finally, I just want to say that after talking about this to you, I feel better. It’s like I’ve identified the judgment within me, and it has less power right now. It’s tolerable. So verbalize it to a spouse or your kids or to the puppy chewing on your slipper. Let it out. It feels better. 

 

There are a lot of insecurities we deal with as writers, as human beings, as children of God, who ultimately will judge all of us anyway for condoning homosexuality and masturbating, can’t we give ourselves a break in the meantime? 

 

There’s so much more I could say on this topic, but my judge is telling me I’ve gone on for too long. Of course, he started saying that after the intro. 

As always, I want to hear from you. How do you deal with Imposter syndrome? How do you tell your judge to take flying leap? Visit my website Cortwrites.com That’s C-O-R-T writes.com and email me, or leave a voice message on my website and maybe I’ll put you on the show. Who knows, maybe we can talk about this together for an upcoming show.

Oh, and you can judge me on Itunes by leaving a review, which tells other people they can judge me too. Also, if you do leave a review, Apple promises to give me back the S key on my laptop. 

 

Today’s quote is from Maya Angelou, an amazing writer whose series of books I think might make it big one day. She says: 

 

“I have written eleven 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.” 

 

Thank you, Maya. See, fellow writers, if Maya felt like an imposter, then we’re in good company.   

 

And in the meantime, don’t let your Imposter Syndrome keep you from owning your place as a human who has every right to start a novel or finish a novel or walk into a writer’s conference and say to your judge: Shut up! I belong here too! Because I’m a writer. 

 

Don’t let judgment stop you. And whatever you do…

 

Keep writing. Write, my friends. Write like you’re saving a baby from a burning car. Because that baby is your novel. And that car is time.