WRITE LIKE NOBODY’S JUDGING: THE IMPOSTER SYNDROME AND HOW I FIGHT IT

Unless you’re some kind of a narcissist, you have at some point or the other heard a little voice within yourself going, “Psst! You don’t have what it takes to do what you’re doing. You’re a fraud and everyone knows it!” Call it what you will – your inner critic, plain underconfidence or its fancy name – the Imposter Syndrome – it’s pretty widespread. 

But women, it seems, are more susceptible to it. And even if you disregard the scientific facts behind this susceptibility – that women produce less of confidence-boosting testosterone – it’s easy to believe that we as a group doubt ourselves doing pretty much anything. Whether it’s motherhood, academia, STEM or even something as pedestrian as trying out a new hairstyle – underneath that veneer of confidence, under that self-possessed smile, there is always that little voice going, “What am I doing? Should’ve just stuck to what I know I’m good at.”

But if that’s what women had stuck to, if they’d not ever put pen to paper, then the art and business of writing would have remained even now, a male bastion. Which it thankfully, isn’t. We’ve come a long way since the days when the Bronte sisters had to use masculine names to get published (perhaps not that long a way though, considering Joanne Rowling had to use her initials instead of her name to be taken seriously by teenage boys, but that’s a discussion for another day).

And hardly anyone at all has the audacity today, for instance, to say what Charles Lamb did about a woman writer of his time: “If she belonged to me, I would lock her up and feed her bread and water till she left off writing poetry.” Which is not to say all is equal in literary land, but hey, things are clearly better than they were. 

Then why is it that every time I type a sentence, I still wonder who gave me the authority to put across an opinion?

And that, right there, I believe is the crux of the matter. After decades of being told overtly or otherwise that a woman’s opinion, her point of view, her take on a situation is not important enough to be heard, she starts believing it. Nobody asked you, the voice echoes in your head, little girls mustn’t speak unless spoken to. But here’s the thing, ladies. That’s utter nonsense. Harper Lee wrote a book from the point of view of a little girl and it made a nation sit up and take notice of its civil injustice. The opinions of women – no matter their age – make a difference. 

What we know, what we imagine, our experiences and their expression have value. And we do not need anybody’s permission to put them into print. If women had sat around waiting for someone to tell them it’s okay to write about what they want, things would’ve been very different. Many firsts in literary history, for instance, would’ve come from men. The first sci-fi novel (Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein), the first utopian novel (Margaret Cavendish’s The Blazing World), hell, the very first novel in fact (Lady Murasaki’s The Tale of Genji) were all written by women. The first masked superhero? The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Orczy. The first autobiography? The Book of Margery Kempe. 

But I get it. We can’t all be literary giants. Those are huge shoes to fill. And the pressure on you is bad enough without feeling obligated to invent a whole new genre for posterity. The self-doubt is crushing and when it attacks, you are immobilised with it. You’re probably wondering if I have any solutions for this debilitating feeling. I’m glad you asked, because you see when I’m struck by the imposter syndrome, I simply think about death.

Not killing myself for the ridiculous plot holes I’ve strewed around my book, although that is certainly a punishable offence. No, I think of mortality. How none of us know when it’s our time to go. 

It’s like going to a party when you’re a kid. You’re running around with your friends, having fun, playing party games. You have big plans of getting a second, maybe a third helping, of the birthday cake. But before you can, your Dad’s here to pick you up and he’s left the car in a no parking zone so you have to leave and you have to leave NOW. 

That’s death for you. Comes unannounced, when you’re having the most fun, and leaves without letting you finish the to-do list. 

And I think, what if that happens before I can finish this book? What if it happens right after I finish and people think I’m only as good as this first draft? Oh, the horror! What if happens after this book is out, before I can write any others? Is my legacy going to be three measly books? That’s it? Come on! I don’t have time to waste on self-doubt! I don’t have the time to wonder if I’m good enough! I’m here. I’m alive. I’m writing and I have got to finish this without thinking about stupid things like what if Salman Rushdie reads this and thinks it’s rubbish. Let’s just say he will think that, okay? This isn’t exactly Nobel Prize for Literature material and you need to make your peace with that! Now, move on and finish writing the damned chapter!

Is that morbid? Well, yes. But then, so am I. The point is, it works for me. Sometimes, sighing deeply about your hypothetical inadequacies doesn’t get you anywhere. Sometimes, being my own heartless drill sergeant is exactly what I need. Because then, I’m not thinking about whether I’m an imposter. I’m thinking about what I’m writing. And isn’t that all a writer deserves to be thinking about?

—

VEDASHREE KHAMBETE SHARMA 

Vedashree Khambete-Sharma is an advertising professional who frequently runs out of space while filling her name in official forms. For the past twenty years, she has flirted with the English language through advertising, journalism and terribly amateur poetry. In the process, she has won several Indian and international awards for advertising, a silver medal for a poem called ‘Mathematics’ and absolutely no recognition for her journalism. She is quite proud of the medal though. Vedashree also has a bachelor’s degree in English Language and Literature, though which specific bachelor’s is anybody’s guess. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, daughter and the uneasy feeling that referring to herself in the third person is just plain creepy.

Find out more about her on her website https://vedashreeks.com/

Follow her on Twitter https://twitter.com/theotherveda

SWEAR YOU WON’T TELL?

When Mumbai Daily journalist Avantika Pandit is asked to interview her childhood nemesis Aisha Juneja, she knows it’ll like an express bikini wax – painful, but quick. Then Laxmi, her former best friend, shows up dead. And suddenly Avantika finds herself turning into the reporter she used to be – a nosy little newshound with the self-preservation instincts of a dodo.

Now, she has to meet old acquaintances she’d hoped never to run into again, try to unravel the puzzle of Laxmi’s death, and ask the questions nobody seems to be asking: Who is the man Laxmi was in love with? Why hasn’t anybody heard of him? What does he have to do with her death?

The answers could get her killed. But if the choice is between churning out listicles on handbags and death, dying might not be that bad after all.

Buy here.

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Category: Contemporary Women Writers, How To and Tips