Fraud in the Mirror: Getting Over Imposter Syndrome

swagger /ˈswæɡər/ (noun):

1. the brief, intoxicating phase where writers are convinced they have cracked storytelling, including the belief that their work is not only brilliant but likely to draw praise from readers who thank them for their service.

2. a state that usually lasts until the writer rereads paragraph two.

Most people assume that if you want to write something badly enough and put your nose to the grindstone, especially if followed by a little positive feedback, confidence will descend upon them like autumn rain.

We're prone to this belief because (a) we desire it to be true, and (b) it's what we actually experience - at least in the beginning. And, by God, those showers are glorious while they last.

But then something unsettling happens as we continue writing: nagging doubts begin to creep in - not only about our writing, but about ourselves.

"I've got this" slowly drifts into "I'm not fooling anyone". "What's the big deal" slips imperceptibly into "what's the point." That ugly feeling becomes especially acute on those days when, following a run of seemingly bottomless creativity, we show up at our desk and the well is as dry as the hills of Gilboa. (Look it up. Very dry.)

The Dunning-Kruger Effect

There's a scientific explanation for this.

When you started as a writer, momentum prevailed because you didn't know what you don't know and you were just having a good time. Your brain was basically running on optimism and vibes. You followed instinct, chased ideas, and pushed forward without overthinking every decision you make. Then you learned more about how story works. You began to comprehend structure, pacing, and character in a deeper way, and over time, your sensitivity to the difference between "good" writing and "bad" writing sharpened.

Problem is, our ability doesn’t generally keep pace with our awareness. And the widening chasm between what we know and what we're able to do introduces a special, new kind of misery: we can see exactly why something isn’t working, but have no idea how to fix it. (At least not yet.)

Once you are able to see what "good" looks like, it becomes nearly impossible to tolerate anything that falls short, including in your own work. Since no one tells you that becoming a more savvy writer comes with this unexpected side effect, your confidence takes a big hit.

Radio host Ira Glass captured this perfectly: “Your taste is why your work disappoints you.”

Cognitive psychologists have a term for this unnerving phenomenon. It's called the competence-awareness gap, also known as the Dunning-Kruger effect.

What this means is that your increasing inclination to second-guess yourself is not a sign that you're getting worse, but that your standards are simply shifting. As your creative intelligence increases, your current draft now has to compete with a higher internal benchmark. Meanwhile, your goals and expectations have no doubt become more ambitious. Net result: Your brain assumes you should be able to produce better work on demand.

So when your new work doesn't meet that new self-imposed minimum requirement, forgetting that work-in-progress is always messy, you interpret the gap between expectation and reality as evidence that something is off. At which point, writing starts to feel like an increasingly futile endeavour.

Now sprinkle in the brain’s natural tendency to fixate on problems, and your tires really start spinning. You could write ten solid paragraphs and only one slightly awkward sentence, but guess which one gets all the attention.

And because writing is something you care so much about, those awkward sentences start to feel less like fixable issues than character flaws - especially since there's no cheerleader standing by to hand you a scorecard confirming your work is now officially “good enough.” If you're especially adept at beating yourself up, you're in for a world of hurt. Bring in the inner critic, it's time to party!

Imposter Syndrome Will Be With You, Always

By the way, this doesn't stop once you become successful. Even wildly so.

Bestselling author Neil Gaiman once said that "the first problem of any kind of even limited success is the unshakable conviction that you are getting away with something, and that any moment now they will discover you."

The most common cause of imposter syndrome is, of course, the ever-receding horizon of comparing yourself to someone else. Neil Gaiman, for example. But even he struggles with it. And he's not the only one.

“I have written eleven books," wrote Maya Angelou, "but each time I think, ‘Uh oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.’”

“The exaggerated esteem in which my life-work is held," said Albert Einstein, "makes me very ill at ease. I feel compelled to think of myself as an involuntary swindler.”

“I am assailed by my own ignorance and inability,” pined John Steinbeck.

“No matter what we’ve done," Tom Hanks once confided, "there comes a point where you think, ‘How did I get here? When are they going to discover that I am, in fact, a fraud?’”

But perhaps the most encouraging words come from author Charles Bukowski: “Bad writers tend to have self-confidence, while the good ones tend to have self-doubt.”

So not only are you in good company, but the best of the best actually suggest self-doubt is a good thing. Because it means you care. It means your awareness is growing, your standards rising, and your skill almost certainly improving, even when it doesn't feel like it. You just have to remember this, and refuse to surrender to the voices in your head screaming "you suck" when you're really just stuck.

The Solution: Just Say No

The goal isn’t to eliminate doubt. It’s to stop treating it as a signal to stop.

Rather than letting those imposter vibes "prove" you're no good, or assuming they must be unilaterally shut down at all costs, allow them a seat at the table. Appreciate the positive things they're actually showing you: that your skills, your work, and you are improving every time you sit down to write.

With that thought in mind, let your current draft be what it is. Let it float below your expectations with the knowledge that you'll pretty it up later. And every time you're brain drifts into the emotional red zone, rest your hands on your belly like a jolly Buddha and laugh out loud because you know better. Say it with me: "Of course my story is less than perfect at this stage. What else could it be?"

Feeling like a fraud isn’t evidence that you are one. It’s just a sign that you're growing in your understanding of how difficult this thing called writing is.

No matter what you think you see in the mirror, be reassured that you haven't lost your way: you're simply finding it.