Imposter Syndrome

So on Sunday I finished the second complete draft of my novel.

It's my second full novel. And it's not really a novel with clear protagonists, antagonists, and a clean plot line. It's more like a story. A slice of life for an ensemble cast that will leave us all feeling good at the end. Sort of. It needs work.

See, I sent it to some people to read. And I'm feeling the imposter syndrome now. Big time. Hence the previous paragraph.

I'm trying to focus on what I know. What I wrote was a product of pandemic. A terrible, no-good year for just about everyone. For me, a year of isolation. I learned two things in pandemic (in addition to the meme-worthy there are people in this world who care about others, and those who won't go through the slightest inconvenience for them).

I realized I was alone in the world. And I confirmed that I was a writer.

I had a conversation with my cousin last week about "alone in this world." It's not a pity party. It's a recognition that no one takes care of me but me. In a crisis - e.g. my building nearly being blown up during protests - I have people I can turn to. And I have people who care about me. But for my daily welfare, I'm on my own.

Second, when you get done with absolutely everything on your list by 6:30 every night, you might look for a new hobby. Or you might rekindle an old one - writing. But writing has never been a hobby. It is my lifeblood. It is the way I show myself to the world.

But pandemic did give me the time to nurture this being, this - dare I say it - talent. And I've been prolific, tapping into depths that I didn't know that I had. Calling things what they are. Reframing everyday occurrences to illustrate a larger theme - a gestalt.

And I thought this writer person in me was pretty cool. So I worked on sharing it. But for an introvert, for a writer, this is, well, let's start with difficult. Let's end with a threat to your very existence. Because writing brings out the very deepest beliefs, opinions, and hopes that I have for this world. (I cannot believe I just typed an Oxford comma. Curse you, AP stylebook.)

And those beliefs, opinions, hopes, dreams, ideals are so much deeper than I'll express in everyday conversation. Because most people aren't equipped to handle them. I've become accustomed to the facial expression that clearly reads "Did you just grow another head? Because that's the wackiest thing I ever heard, and growing a second head would be much more normal." I cannot begin to tell you how many times I nod my head in agreement while silently rolling my eyes in normal conversation. (Those of you who picked up on this are my friends.)

And here lie the roots of imposter syndrome. I know what I'm putting out there is different. And the last thing that I need/want to hear is how wacky it is. But I do it because of the Nietzsche quote on my front page - good writers prefer to be understood rather than admired. I long for that understanding.

The fact that I am not normal is quickly obvious in my writing, how I express my ideas, what those ideas even are. Only the strong, the aware, will get them. And so when I put out some writing, there are conditions, disclaimers. This is a little out there. Constructive comments only. It's not really a novel.

Because, in the words of one of my favorite songwriters, Jakob Dylan, I'm turning my back on a world that I could never know. (Listen on Spotify) I'm criticizing me before you get a chance to. I'll do a better job of it anyway.

Is self-publishing my attempt to make peace with this? Have I dug deeply enough through the imposter to find the seeds of confidence? Are the four of you who have my novel to read going to prove me wrong?

We'll see.