When I was twenty one, seeking admission to graduate school, I interviewed at ___ University. The department to which I was applying offered to pay all my travel expenses - airfare, hotel and meals. I bought a new suit and headed to ____, simultaneously thrilled and terrified. This was one of the first times I'd traveled on my own. I vividly recall the rather stodgy, old-fashioned hotel where they put me up. I even remember what I ate for dinner the night before my appointment.
I
spent all day talking to various faculty members, and probably
(though I don't recall it) gave a presentation on my undergraduate
research. My most enduring memory is my final meeting, with one of
the young but already famous stars in the department. In retrospect,
I realize he was a new Ph.D., probably no more than half a dozen
years older than I was, but his brusque, no-nonsense manner
intimidated me from the start. Confronted with his authoritative
presence, my already feeble confidence wilted. I knew I was about to
be exposed.
I
sat in his office while he rapid-fired questions, probing my
knowledge of the literature, testing my understanding of both my own
research and his. I answered to the best of my ability, but as the
interrogation continued, I grew more and more intimidated. A lump
congealed in my chest. Tears gathered in my eyes. We probably talked
for no more than twenty minutes, but I felt as though I'd been
subjected to hours of torture by the Inquisition. By the end of the
interview, I was appalled to realize that I was crying outright. How
could I be so immature? So unprofessional?
At
last he sat back in his chair, watching as I choked back my tears.
“So,” he said, with a small smile that I knew hid his scorn. “Do
you have any questions for me?”
“Um
– well...” My voice quavered. Self-disgust almost overwhelmed
me. “Do you think I belong here at ____?”
His
smile broadened. “Oh, definitely. You'll fit right in.”
It
turned out he was right. But that's not what this post is about. No,
I want to focus on that sense of inadequacy, so deep that it inspired
tears. Of course, everyone feels nervous when they're being
evaluated, but all the evidence suggested that I was perfectly
capable of succeeding at this university. I was graduating from
another top school with combined bachelors and masters degrees. I
already had a research publishing credit. My transcript showed a
single B (in Physics, due to my klutziness in lab) over four years of
study. I brought stellar recommendations from my adviser and other
faculty. Why did I feel like I was a fraud?
I
recently heard the term “imposter syndrome” for the first time.
Apparently it's pretty common to feel that your successes don't
reflect your underlying ability or knowledge – that you've just
been “lucky” and “had the breaks”. It's somewhat discouraging
for me to realize that I still suffer to some extent from this
syndrome, not just with regards to my profession but also my writing.
Because
you know, I'm not really a writer. I don't write every day – hey,
if I can force out a few thousand words on Sunday, I'm grateful. I'm
not driven to write, the way a real writer is. In fact,
sometimes I'll do anything to avoid sitting down at the computer and
attacking my latest WIP.
My
publishing history looks impressive, but remember, that's over an
eighteen year period. My incremental rate of publication is pretty
pitiful, especially compared to my peers. Even more telling is the
fact that I really don't suffer for my art. I don't agonize, trying
to find the perfect way to express my ideas. I don't dig deep into my
soul for truths and then expose them on the page. I pound away,
satisfied to produce superficial, forgettable stories that at best
entertain. I rarely do more than two drafts, and the second is likely
to be pretty close to the first.
What
a phony!
Sound
familiar? I'll bet that it does. When I read the work of some of my
other author-friends, I'm simultaneously awed and envious. They're
such excellent writers – their words move, inspire, arouse and
disturb me. Even their blog posts sometimes bring tears to my eyes.
However,
I suspect – no, in some cases, I know, because they've told me –
that they feel the same way as I do. In my more rational moments, I
recognize that this sort of comparison undermines my satisfaction, my
motivation and my peace of mind – and theirs, too. That doesn't
stop me from crying sometimes - from frustration and guilt.
Reason
doesn't always win.
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