Imposter Syndrome – She's a Bitch!

I often feel like there’s this myth about writing a novel, that you sit in some moody little café with a lovely cup of coffee in one hand, words pouring effortlessly out of you like you’re some modern-day Jane Austen with a laptop.

Let me tell you now… It’s a lie!

I’ve written just shy of 95,000 words and I don’t think a single one of them came out without a mini internal crisis. And yes, I triple-checked the word count because I still don’t quite believe what I have achieved already.

Most of the time, I’m writing on the sofa once my toddler’s finally gone to bed, laptop balanced awkwardly on my knee, snacks within reach, while I try to remember if the character details I added last month are now being contradicted. Did he have light hair? Brown hair? Sandy hair? I often slam my laptop shut, annoyed with myself for not keeping notes like this somewhere easy to find. And other times, the words flow effortlessly, whilst sat at the kitchen table stealing a quick hour when I can at weekend, or if the sun’s out (which is rare), in the garden, creating elaborate shade structures out of bed sheets hanging from the washing line, just so I can see my screen without being blinded by the glare. 

Trying to write a novel around real life? That’s a plot twist in itself. Going back to work, chasing after a tiny human who always wants to “help” with everything, and somehow still making time to write, it’s nothing short of chaos. Beautiful chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

I have a truly terrible habit of over-editing. I’ll often rewrite a paragraph ten times, convince myself I’ve nailed it, then go back to the original version and decide that actually, yes, that was better all along. I’m sure it’s some form of literary self-sabotage.

Whilst I’ve heard many writers are able to, I can’t listen to music while I write. I wish I was one of those authors who could say, “I wrote this entire book whilst listening to Linkin Park.” But no. Stephenie Meyer may have managed to power through Twilight with Muse playing in the background, but if I have music on, I end up accidentally typing lyrics within my writing. One minute it’s heartfelt lines of soul-baring monologue, the next it’s: "These wounds, they will not heal." which, to be fair, could weirdly work for my character's emotional spiral, but still. Not ideal!

Don’t even get me started with Imposter Syndrome. She’s terrifying, loud, and she’s basically a permanent resident in my brain. She knocks on my mental door like clockwork, screaming, 'What makes you think you can write a novel? You hardly even read!' or 'Yeah, right, like anyone will care about your story!'

And whilst there are moments when I feel like I’ve nailed it, when I think, “Yes! That’s exactly what I wanted to happen!” the majority of the time there are the other moments where I’ve genuinely considered tossing my laptop out the window and pretending this whole writing thing was just a ridiculous, far-fetched pipe dream, better off filed away under ‘things I’ll pretend never happened.'

I think the hardest part of all, though, is the thoughts of sharing it. Only a handful of my closest friends and family even know that I’ve started writing. Even this blog hasn’t been shared wider than anyone accidentally stumbling across my website somehow. It’s petrifying. Writing something that feels so personal and then putting it out into the world… it’s like peeling your heart open and saying, “Here you go, hope you like it.” Which is why I’ve been dragging my feet a little lately. But, the overarching ache to get it finished is so strong. Even if it never gets published, I want to be able to say, “I wrote a book.” That’s the dream.

So if you’re reading this and also writing something, whether it’s a novel, a messy draft, a secret Wattpad story under a fake name, keep going. Even if it’s slow. Even if you feel like a fraud. Even if you write the same sentence three different ways and delete them all. 

You’re not alone. We’re all winging it. And honestly?

I’ve been told that some of the best stories began that way.