Wrestling With Impostor Syndrome (and Occasionally Winning)

Let me tell you a little secret. One that I, like most writers I know, don’t say out loud unless coaxed with chocolate or caffeine or the promise of a free tote bag.

Ready?

I regularly think I’m a fraud.

Yep. Impostor syndrome is basically my sidekick. My unwanted sidekick. Like a clingy ex who keeps showing up at book signings whispering, “You don’t belong here.”

You see, writing is deeply personal. We’re not assembling IKEA furniture (though honestly, my last attempt at a bookshelf made me feel equally unqualified). When you write, you’re pulling thoughts from your soul, arranging them into fragile sentences, and then sending them out into the big bad world hoping someone doesn’t say, “Well, that’s garbage.”

There’s no magical scroll that arrives by owl post declaring: “Congratulations, you are now officially a Writer™.” No license, no laminated badge, not even a quirky business card. If you’re waiting for someone to officially knight you with a pen and say, “Arise, Word Warrior,” it’s not coming.

(Although, if someone wants to start that society, call me.)

So how do you know you’re a writer? Simple.

If you write, you’re a writer.
That’s it. Full stop. No secret handshake required.

Still, impostor syndrome sneaks in, doesn’t it? Especially when you compare your behind-the-scenes messy drafts and sob sessions to someone else's curated Instagram author life. They have candles, aesthetic coffee cups, and appear to have written a novel in three days while also meal-prepping and learning Italian. Meanwhile, I’ve been “editing” the same paragraph since Tuesday and just found a cookie in my notebook. (I ate it. Obviously.)

But here’s what I’ve learned—and I want you to really let this soak in like a good moisturizer:
Self-doubt doesn’t mean you’re not good enough. It means you care.

You care deeply. About the words. About the stories. About doing it well. And honestly? That’s kind of beautiful.

So what do I do when I feel like a big ol’ fraud?

I lean on my tribe. A wonderful, weird group of like-minded writers who remind me that we all feel this way sometimes. That rejection is part of the journey, not the definition of it. And that yes, even multi-published authors sometimes feel like their cat is a better writer than they are.

We remind each other to keep writing.
To keep whispering (or shouting) “I am a writer.”
To celebrate progress, not perfection.
And most importantly, to never let that shadowy imposter in our heads silence our voice.

Because your words matter.
And so do mine.
Even if I still sometimes Google “what is a subplot” at midnight like I’ve never written a novel in my life.

So here’s to you, fellow word wrangler. Whether you’re scribbling in journals, plotting fantasy epics, writing cozy mysteries with magical dogs (hi, it’s me), or just bravely staring down that blinking cursor—

You are a writer.
And impostor syndrome doesn’t stand a chance against that truth.

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

Stories Are Everywhere: The Writer’s Endless Inspiration

As a writer, one of the most common questions I’m asked is, “How do you come up with your stories?” It’s a question that often makes me smile because the answer is as simple as it is profound: stories are everywhere. Inspiration doesn’t always strike in grand, dramatic moments. More often than not, it emerges quietly, weaving its way into the fabric of everyday life. Conversations with friends, the sights and sounds of a bustling city, or even the stillness of a room can spark the seed of an idea. Writers aren’t just storytellers; we’re observers, collecting fragments of life and spinning them into tales. Let me share a recent example of how a simple evening turned into the genesis of a new story idea. Over two perfectly crafted negronis, I was discussing the schedule for an upcoming event with a friend. Their house, a treasure trove of artwork, surrounded us. Every piece of art seemed to hum with a story of its own. Midway through the second drink, I remarked, “One day, someb...

The Battle-Scarred ThinkPad and the Mountain of Notebooks: A Love Story

Let’s talk about favorite writing tools. Now, I know some authors might name drop fancy apps, sleek white minimalist keyboards, or those delicate fountain pens with gold nibs that require ceremonial ink rituals … But me? My tools are a little less... romantic. A little more indestructible . And, dare I say, a little more clunky with character . Once upon a time—cue flashback shimmer—I wrote all my stories by hand . Not just a page or two, either. I mean boxes and boxes of handwritten notebooks , full of scribbles, side notes, doodles in the margins, entire character backstories I forgot existed until ten years later. My early stories were a workout for my wrist. I had pens running dry faster than a coffee pot in a newsroom. It was chaotic. It was glorious. Typing those books up? A mission. A translation project. A cryptic decoding effort worthy of Indiana Jones. There were arrows. Stars. Entire paragraphs stuffed sideways in the margins like they were trying to escape the story. So...

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