The internet will tell you that I’m a writer, but that’s not entirely true. I mean, it can’t be, can it – not if I haven’t been writing. And therein lies my nemesis – the imposter syndrome: a persistent, overwhelming fear of being exposed as a fraud. This fear has gradually yet firmly tightened its grip on every creative muscle I may once have possessed, cutting off the oxygen and killing a kaleidoscope of words, tightly constructed sentences and animated or gentle prose. The fear of being an imposter has completely defeated me; I’m not a writer, right?
So I no longer write – anything.
This might sound like giving up (it does in my mind’s internal narrative), but surely it cannot be, if the desire to write, to be a writer, to have work published and Yes, to be paid for my creations is still very much present, hungry, reaching.
Three years ago, I would’ve confidently introduced myself as a writer. I was very much in my writing infancy back then, so the industry (my fellow writers and journalists and the gatekeepers to publishing, editors) was more forgiving. But when you’ve had a tidbit of success, then a torrent of abstract failure, attempting to rise once again is no longer an indication of survival, a determination to succeed, a wilful countenance, but an embarrassing effort to grasp the ghost of a once imagined blossoming career. So the thorns of doubt grow sharper, piercing the withered heartbeat of creativity and sprouting a graveyard of untold stories, never to be lamented.
This blog, in part, is an attempt to battle this burdensome affliction and revive my creativity.
Praying for ease and success.