Before doing any prerequisite research, I self-diagnosed my recent bouts of crippling doubt over my worthiness to write this memoir as imposter syndrome.

Having now done the research, I hesitate to label myself as such, since, according to the definition, that would mean I’ve been successful already and just can’t internalize it. Also, I fail to see myself as a “high-achieving” individual. (I’ve yet to achieve anything, despite what my well-meaning mom may say in response.)

In several National Library of Medicine articles reviewing the subject, researchers define imposter syndrome as a condition experienced by high-achieving individuals who, despite their objective successes, struggle to internalize their accomplishments and constantly doubt themselves, fearing they’ll be exposed as frauds or impostors. (Kolligian & Sternberg)

So, why even bring this up?

Way, way back, circa 2010, I had an idea. I’d been writing since I was a kid, mostly churning out fanfictions, or stories that piggyback off other people’s published work. I wrote a handful of cringe-worthy original stories as well that were basically just fanfictions in disguise. So, this idea of mine wasn’t terribly original, but in an era when everything’s been done before, what concept is? As a teen in high school, worrying about originality and future sales figures didn’t factor into the conceptualization of my story. My focus was on writing something that would entertain me. It was bliss starting that project, but I lacked the time for it once my senior year started. So, I put it aside.

Several years go by, and I graduate college with a degree in journalism[1] that I have no concrete plans of using (me, a shy introvert, chasing down people to interview, get real), when Mom strongly suggested I try graduate school.

In retrospect, I can’t believe I listened to her. Well, in a way. I’m very frugal. My dad paid for my journalism degree, but any additional schooling had to come from my own meager stores. I signed up for two writing courses, but dropped one after attending a class and disliking the teacher’s syllabus. The cost was still exorbitant, and I valued all my dad’s financial contributions to my education more than ever the day I paid that bill. So, I did go to graduate school, technically, but it was for a single class and I couldn’t force myself to pay for more than one semester.

That class changed everything for me. (I sure do say that a lot lately.)

For our final grade, our teacher asked us to critique each other’s work. I had been in a writing slump for years, so I pulled out my old notebook containing the tale I’d put aside in high school. Starting with that stale premise, a nugget still imbedded in my story’s soul, I drew forth fresh ideas and built a universe to contain them.

For the assignment, I wrote a short story set in my fictional world based on a few side characters. Classmates of all ages with varying reading preferences enjoyed it, despite some glaring grammar mistakes and terrible sentences.

A spark reignited in my heart. Long after closing the door on graduate school, I was still scribbling notes, pages after pages of them. The story shifted, expanding, growing into something much bigger than my high school self ever could have imagined. The notebook turned into a 5’ binder, which grew to include a collection of notebooks, folders and countless reference books. My mind unspooled in the best way as I fashioned maps for my fantasy world, invented animals and peoples, created pages of made-up names, a mythology, even trying to develop a conlang[2] of my very own. That last one might have broken me, as once I started it was hard to stop, and I couldn’t get it right. I just didn’t have enough time to dedicate to the vastness of the project, and the conlang took it one step too far.

Surely, you’re still thinking, what on earth does any of this have to do with the memoir?

Well, nothing and everything. While I was being so extra about my Elementals project, I was still working a day job at my mom’s shop. Mom could make a book herself of all the texts I’ve sent her over the years, whining about not having enough time to write. If my 25-year-old self could see me now, with minutes oozing out of my pores, she’d slap me silly. This has been my dream for so long—to spend my days writing, money be damned—and I’ve been squandering it with my insecurities. Until today, I haven’t even fully appreciated that I’m actually doing it.

I’m too busy fretting about wasting my newfound time, or thinking how unworthy I am of Dad’s legacy, if not comparing myself to my much more capable younger sister. I know I need to let these things go, so I can write my memoir unburdened by expectation, the way I used to write.

A/N: I had this “mini-revelation*” this morning when I came across my old notebooks and writings, reading my familiar scrawl across so many pages, but rather than immediately act upon this newborn sense of self-worth, I had to pen this blog post. The hardest part of a mini-revelation is to come to an understanding today, but easily “forget it” by tomorrow. When I write a simplified bullet point version of a revelation without all the backstory, it’s easy for me to not believe myself. Now, anytime I doubt myself, I can re-read my blog post and remember.

[1] It was the more “practical” choice, according to just about everyone, so I chose it over my original major, English. Apparently, only teachers use English degrees, and I don’t have the saintly patience to be one of those blessed angels. Little did I know then how trivial any degree would come to be in the near future.

[2] A conlang, or constructed language, is a language that has been artificially created. This is a big undertaking, when done right, and I was perhaps a bit too ambitious when trying to create one similar to Tolkien’s complex elvish languages with no formal philology training.

Sources:

Kolligian, J., and R. J. Sternberg. “Perceived Fraudulence in Young Adults: Is There an ‘Imposter Syndrome’?” Journal of Personality Assessment, vol. 56, no. 2, Apr. 1991, pp. 308–26.

Related:

Giving Dad Away, Piece by Piece

The Obsessive Mind: a Curse or a Blessing?

Something’s Bothering Me

Kinsey Keys

aspiring memoirist rummaging through my noggin, stubbornly clutching the past to my chest like it’s a newborn babe starved for mother's milk.

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