Imposter

Are you a writer or an imposter? Who says so?

It was not until I wrote my fourth novel that I began to think of myself as a writer. Up until then, I was a retired schoolteacher, a scribbler, a dabbler in words. When people asked what I did, the word “writer” never crossed my mind.

After retirement, I found I had the Great American Teaching Novel in me, a long tome involving forty years of teenage angst, sexist department chairs, lesson plans, hot math teachers, classroom discipline, X-rated sex, school board politics, and teaching pedagogy. Two-hundred thousand words later, when that was out of my system, a mystery novel followed, then a thriller, then a multi-voice tale of horror. And so it went.

Was I a writer? I would not have presumed. I was insecure. Agents and publishers rejected me by the boatload. I felt like an imposter. Even though I had three completed novels and an agent who didn’t work out. And a process, with multiple index cards, flow charts, and colored markers. And a stable of readers at my bridge club.

For me, the word “writer” was a loaded one, conjuring up images of successful authors with shelves of published novels, big advances, and movie deals. Stephen King and Agatha Christie.

I suffered from Imposter Syndrome because I felt inadequate, a pretender to the writer’s throne. I mistrusted my success—all those novels—it seemed to be the wrong kind of success. My insecurity extended to fear of pretentiousness, not wanting to come across as an arrogant prick. In my mind I had idealized what a writer should be, and I wasn’t it.

Which leads to the question, what qualifies one to call oneself a writer? How many years does it take before an imposter crosses the threshold into being the real thing?

Must one be published? Have an MFA degree? Or simply occasionally write a sentence or two? How many words a week? And what about the quality? If it has to be good, who judges? Must it be a traditional publisher?

A while after I’d taken the plunge into calling myself a writer, I found myself reading a piece in my critique group from a new member. His writing, in my humble opinion, was egregious, with breathless, hyperventilating prose, mixed metaphors, and every cliché in the book. (Ha!) I, the reader, was dragged through miles of bleak countryside and pages of excruciating back story. And yet here was this person in my writers’ group, presuming to critique my work.

I followed the rules. I said nice things about his piece. I wrote that the premise was “intriguing.” And I made several kind heartfelt suggestions for improvement.

To my amazement, this young man—Nate—turned out to be an astute reader who gave great feedback. He found an inconsistency in my protagonist’s actions that immediately rang true. After the session, Nate approached me and thanked me for my suggestions. He also complimented me on my writing.

“What do you do?” I asked amicably, thinking he may be a teacher, or a student.

He looked momentarily taken aback. “I’m a writer,” he said.

I paused. Absorbed it.

He noticed. “Movie screenplays, TV show-runner, that kind of thing. Now I’m trying my hand at fiction,” he said. Take that, you condescending wannabe! I’m a multi-millionaire and you’re a retired schoolteacher.

Oh, no siree, not anymore. I’m a writer too.