Entry 02: Writing Woes; Imposter Syndrome

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I’ve always been drawn to words. Whether it was the rush of excitement from scribbling in a notebook as a child or the satisfaction of piecing together an essay in school, writing has always felt like a natural home to me. Yet, it took me years to claim that identity; to say with any conviction, I am a writer.

There’s something about that label, isn’t there? The moment you say it aloud or even in your own mind, the weight of it falls heavily upon you. It's not just about putting words on a page—it's about owning the process, the craft, and the vulnerability that comes with it. Writing isn’t merely about skill or practice; it’s about courage. It’s about finding the strength to sit with yourself, to listen to your thoughts and let them spill out, raw and untamed. But perhaps the hardest part of all is the courage to claim it as your own and to share this part of yourself with others.

Stephen King, in his memoir On Writing, says something that resonates deeply with me: “The scariest moment is always just before you start.” I remember the first time I sat down to write with the intention of being a writer. It felt as though I was standing on the edge of a cliff, and the only way forward was to leap into the unknown. The self-doubt crept in almost instantly. Was I good enough? Was this a reasonable endeavor for the likes of me? Was I allowed to call myself a writer, or would that be an act of arrogance, an insult to those who had truly earned the title?

It’s a feeling that many writers experience. That persistent voice of self-doubt, the one that whispers that you don’t belong. That your words aren’t important enough, your stories aren’t meaningful enough. This voice is the embodiment of imposter syndrome—that cruel, nagging belief that no matter how much you write or how much you learn, you're still pretending. You’re still an outsider, looking in.

Rick Rubin, in The Creative Act: A Way of Being, describes the act of creation as “a conversation with the universe.” Yet, in this conversation, the ego constantly gets in the way. That internal critic keeps interrupting, trying to convince you that you’re not qualified to speak, not worthy of participating in the grand dialogue. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve stared at a blank page, my mind swirling with thoughts, but unable to commit to one because it feels... not enough. As if the universe could somehow recognize my inadequacy.

It’s during these moments that the path of writing truly becomes a journey of self-discovery. For writing isn’t just about the art—it’s about facing your fears head-on. It’s about developing emotional intelligence, the awareness to recognize those voices of doubt and to move beyond them, to continue putting one word in front of the other even when your mind insists that it’s pointless.

King also writes, “The writer’s job is not to make a reader feel anything in particular. The writer’s job is to write, and the reader will feel what they feel.” This idea is freeing. It reminds me that the act of writing is not about forcing a reaction or crafting perfection. It’s about being honest with myself and allowing my words to come from a place of truth. The story might not resonate with everyone, but it’s my truth. And that in itself is enough.

The question becomes: how do you step into your own voice, your own narrative, when doubt shadows every step? The only answer I’ve found is through acceptance. Accepting that I will never have all the answers, that my writing will always evolve, and that the imposter syndrome will likely never fully go away. It’s a constant battle with the self. But I’ve come to realize that it’s this very struggle that makes writing such an intimate act—one that is intrinsically tied to who I am and what I believe.

So, I write. And I claim the title of writer not because I’m perfect, but because I’m willing to show up day after day, to face the blank page, and to share pieces of my soul. I write because, as Rubin says, “The creative act requires not only a deep understanding of the self but also an openness to experience.” It’s the openness to vulnerability, to the messiness of it all, that truly makes a writer.

And maybe that’s the point: writing isn’t about being perfect, or even about being good enough. It’s about the act itself, about being brave enough to say, this is me, and letting the words flow as they will.

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Discussion: How do you combat imposter syndrome in your own creative work? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.