How to Write Through Imposter Syndrome (Even When You Feel Like a Fraud)
A guide to writing through self-doubt, sharing your work anyway, and remembering you’re more qualified than your inner critic thinks.
You know the feeling. You open your laptop, crack your knuckles, and suddenly wonder if maybe you’ve hallucinated every past success. Did you really write that piece last year? Did anyone actually like it? Should you be doing this at all?
That’s imposter syndrome talking—and it has a megaphone.
1. Imposter Syndrome Isn’t a Sign You’re Failing
Ironically, it’s often a sign you care deeply about what you’re doing. It shows up when you’re stretching. Risking. Writing something that might actually matter. In that way, imposter syndrome isn’t the enemy—it’s proof you’re in the arena.
2. Your Voice Doesn’t Have to Be the Loudest to Be Worth Hearing
Maybe you’re not the most technical, the most poetic, the most anything. That’s okay. Your job isn’t to be the best writer in the room—it’s to be the truest version of yourself on the page. That’s what readers respond to. That’s what makes work resonate.
3. Keep a “Proof You’re Not Terrible” Folder
Every nice comment. Every “this made me cry” DM. Every “this is exactly what I needed to read.” Screenshoot it. Save it. Read it when your brain tries to convince you you’re faking it. Your doubt might be loud, but your impact is louder—you just forget sometimes.
4. Hit Publish Anyway
That pit in your stomach? The voice saying, “This isn’t ready”? That’s not always intuition. Sometimes it’s fear in costume. Hit publish anyway. You might cringe. You might spiral. But you’ll also move forward—and that’s the only way the doubt loses power.
You’re More Legit Than You Think
Imposter syndrome doesn’t mean you’re an imposter. It means you’re human. It means you’re making something. And the more you keep showing up, the less convincing that voice becomes.
Let your writing prove it wrong.
A Fiction Break
Jewish Geography
By Liz Dubelman
I was in hell—the soulless tower housing Nike Town, Bear Stearns, and Square Talent Agency. I felt like I'd bought a lottery ticket with my last dollar, excited and nauseous about potentially turning my book into a limited series.
Before being ushered into the meeting, I sat in the fourth-floor lobby with three strangers, all clutching electronic devices like rosaries. Two talked on their phones ("Yeah, yeah, that was great" and "7:00, six people"), one thumb-typed, and I pretended to scan news. I wasn't really reading. I just wanted to fit in.
After a beautiful young man took my coffee order, I was escorted to a corner glass office. Silver tray of pretzel sticks and Lorna Doones. Two agents introduced themselves as Lee and Haley—young, extremely tailored, like they'd been pressed in the same machine.
"We just love what you're doing," Lee said. I checked myself to see if I was unconsciously "doing" something.
"Thank you. I feel really passionate about storytelling. I think it transcends boundaries." I'd worked up that bullshit in the Uber. Silence. I tried again. "The Internet is giving us a whole new look and feel to storytelling."
More silence except for Lee's aggressive pretzel crunching.
"With all due respect"—always a bad sign—"the internet is irrelevant and good storytelling is a given," Haley said.
Lee jumped in. "Here's how you should play it. We'll hook you up with a show runner. You'll go into the meeting together. Two minutes of Jewish Geography—'I had the same first-grade teacher! We share an OBGYN! My third cousin was your mother's valet at the club!' Fifteen minutes to tell three stories, three minutes to wrap up. That's where you can say your little thing about the Internet if you have to."
"Rob Barrington—he's black. Or maybe a woman, Gina Defanning. I know Jessica Hsau," Haley rattled off.
I assumed these were show runners and Haley wasn't having some sort of verbal stroke. My mind went into soft focus. I started seeing only their clothes—Lee's black suit with the faintest gray stripe, dove-gray pocket square, graphite-gray tie. Haley's black geometrical dress. They had the same shoes.
"We really love your book or whatever." They both stood up. "We're going to make a lot of money."
I shook their hands as they held the door open.
When I got home, Theresa was still cleaning my apartment. I time my appointments so I'm out when she comes—it stresses me out to see other people touch my stuff. I don't even like touching my own stuff, which is why I can't clean.
Theresa says she brings joy to everything she does, even cleaning my oven. I asked her, "Theresa, you're so happy all the time. How do you do that?"
"Miss Linda, I have a personal relationship with Jesus. You should come with me to church."
I can feel the ashes of my Holocaust relatives clogging my sinus passages.
I wish I had that kind of faith, but my mind won't let me. I have the curse of knowing too much. I think of God as a punitive imaginary friend and religion as a nebulous concept that wars are fought over. But Theresa has the dignity that Lee and Haley couldn’t even pretend to have.
Linda thought back to the meeting. Lee told the story of the moment he knew it was over with his girlfriend: "She says to me, 'Why do we have to get The New York Times? We’re always spending a nickel here, a dime there. It adds up. ' And I say, 'I grew up in New Jersey. I went to Yale, for God's sake.'"
“For God's sake,” I think. I’m silent. He's waiting for my reaction.
"Is that when you left?" I ask.
"Nah. I was too caught up—you know, with her parents and friends and all. I waited for her to break up with me."
I wonder if I can pass my quiet off as dignity. Or does that make me a poser too? Theresa is not a poser. She has grace, dignity, and faith—qualities I can only strive for, some I'll never find. Faith is the most enviable. It would be great to have a single focus, a place to go where everything would eventually be all right. But it's hard to imagine when God seems as real as Bigfoot, but even more destructive.
I gave Theresa an extra twenty for the church.
“… to see if I was unconsciously ‘doing’ something …” ❣️