By N.A. Kimber

In a novel I hope to finish, I have the following note to myself: I am writing in a time when I am uncertain of my identity as a writer; a time where I feel unrecognised, and unsupported. I have been tempted to set this book on fire numerous times because I know it is not good enough… It is dated April 12th, 2020. This was a glimpse at the demon that I have been dealing with from the moment I wrote my first book at age eleven. I had rolled my eyes at it and rejected the idea that I could ever be a successful writer. Eleven was the age I was the first time someone told me that I was talented, and I couldn’t believe them. That was my first taste of imposter syndrome. 

In the past, any failure I endured I took as the truth; any success for my writing, I took as a fluke. For a time, I believe it was just easier to keep my writing as mine. Then 2020 saw what seemed to be a lot of people falling to one side. The pandemic was getting to them. They were drowning. Failing. Others, though, were thriving. I watched as people that I knew began developing dream projects, starting businesses, diving into passion projects. I would like to believe it was a sudden surge of motivation that prompted me to share my writing, but in truth, it was severe anxiety of being left behind. 

For a time, I put myself under intense anxiety. I opened myself up to rejection, trying to fight what I felt was inevitable. For a time, my worst fears were just that, fears; for a brief period, I was met with only success. I was getting accepted, published, friends and family were complimenting my work, and it didn’t matter that the voice was still there telling me it was all wrong. It didn’t matter that my self worth relied on others because I had it. It didn’t matter that I nearly pushed myself into panic attacks when submitting or that I stayed up at night wondering when it was all going to come to an end.

When it did end, the fallout was devastating. The first rejection was the wave that knocked me over. The ones that followed were the undertow that kept pulling me back. As they came in, that voice in my head got louder and louder, and after all that success, all that support, I was too afraid to admit to my family that they had been wrong. That I really had fooled them. I couldn’t bear to destroy the illusion. To have the mask removed and for them to see me for what I was –  my failure as my truth and my success as a fluke. So, I dealt with it alone. For months I stopped writing, stopped submitting. I didn’t tell a soul about the rejections, what they did to me, or that I wasn’t writing.

This year, 2021, has felt and still feels much the same as 2020, and it was only that fear of drowning that made me again think to begin publishing. But when I realised I wasn’t happy, that even as acceptances began to come in again that I still felt like I was pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes, I knew that I wasn’t over my imposter syndrome. I knew it was just the beginning of what would be another round of self-doubt, and I wasn’t prepared to go through it again. 

The truth is, I don’t know the answer to imposter syndrome. All I can say to you now is how I cope with it. I have failed. I will continue to fail. But success is also my truth. Ultimately, it is just important to share in the failures as it is in the successes. To seek support and feedback where you can. Share your disappointments. Your heartbreak. Take off the mask and do your best to show people what you fear most about yourself. 

There is a truth to the saying that we are our own worst critics. The voice is still there. All the time, even as I am writing this article. I don’t think it will ever go away, and I think it is important I articulate this. It is important that I let you know that I think I am fooling you into believing I am much more successful and talented than I am. I am a failure. But I am successful, too. And I hope someday, that will be a truth I can fully accept.