Today I attended a writer workshop on Imposter Syndrome. I’ve struggled a lot over the years with a form of this, always filled with self-doubt. As part of the workshop, we had to write down times when writing as a career felt plausible.
Writing entered my life as a teenager, during a senior year English class I ditched more often than I attended. Mr. Christiansen read two of my pieces in front of the class. He didn’t say who wrote it, but my cheeks flushed with heat. I sat uncomfortably in my chair wondering if anyone in the class knew it was my words being read. The first was a poem I wrote inspired by a painting of a mother and daughter, though I can’t remember what I wrote. The second was a non-fiction essay on a life-changing event. I wrote about the death of my nephew. Later, Mr. Christiansen showed me my attendance record, letting me know I was absent about thirty days in a single quarter. He gave me an A despite my attendance, encouraging me to write more. He said I was a good writer.
Back then I had too many problems to hear what he was saying to me, what he was trying to do for me. I remember telling Mr. Reyes about it; he was the outreach consultant at East High School. He asked me to write a short story. It was my very first attempt at writing fiction. It wasn’t good. When he read it, he had that uncomfortable look of, ‘I don’t know what to say,’ so he smiled politely. I wrote one other short story while I was a student at UCSB, but I didn’t start writing seriously until 2008, when I took a creative writing workshop at Santa Barbara City College with Meryl Peters. The best advice I got from Meryl was this: She told me of my potential. That I had cupboards filled with raw material. She said my ideas were good. She also told me to practice more, fix my problem areas, and hone my craft.
Imposter Syndrome is a hairy beast. I didn’t feel like a writer. My friend, Anthony Lanni, had encouraged me with some of my pieces. His comments he made in passing impacted me as a new writer. He liked my Villanueva story (Methuselah Descent), asking for more. He liked The Man Who Stole Time. He said during a meeting once when he had to get up and do something, “I had to get back to the story to find out what happened.” He told me Mary Loved to Dance should be an English Lit textbook. These little drops of encouragement helped. Being vetted by lit journals–even the non-paying ones–helped. However, the reverse can happen with unkind comments, too.
Despite having publications self-doubt was ever present. My first kismet moment finally arrived when I held the print copy of Methuselah Descent. I don’t feel like an imposter anymore, but self-doubt changes shape; it hovers over my shoulder. My advice to new writers: Write anyway. I write when I’m confident, and I write when I’m not.
A Brief Tangent
I thought about my parents today, about what I wrote in my previous blog. Feels kind of random but I started thinking about the post while at the WOK meeting today, wondering who all read the post and if anyone sees me in a negative light because of it. I don’t want to be treated differently or be seen as someone to pity. I know some people will judge me because of my family. I know because it has happened before. A long time ago, I almost lost a friend because one day her father saw my father and made a judgment, because my dad looked like a cholo with his clothes and hair and prison tattoos. He forbad her from talking with me. When she told me this, I remember saying, “But I’m not my dad.” It didn’t matter what I had accomplished. Her father couldn’t see past my father. How much more if I say, I loved my dad? I loved him even though he did the things he did, even though he sold drugs and was addict himself. Loving him doesn’t mean I condoned anything he did.
My daughter called as I was writing this blog post. She asked me what I was doing, and I told her blogging. She asked, “Does anyone read your blog?” No. Lol. Well, a few people.
Cyn B 