I have had six novels and several non-fiction books traditionally published, but still frequently doubt my ability to craft a sentence, never mind a 90,000- word novel. I’m always amazed when the final product appears and I hold it, newly published, in my trembling mitts wondering: did I really write all those words? There is a surreal sense of elation when a book is accepted, but as with so many authors, I am all too soon brought back down to earth by the fear that, gasp, maybe the publisher made a mistake. What if the editor realises that I am actually a fraud and the book is no good, but somehow I’ve managed to con her into thinking it is? Ridiculous, of course, but all too real at silly o’clock in the morning when the doubts are strongest.
I mention this because when I read Wendy Clarke’s blogpost about lacking the confidence to call herself an author, I empathised immediately. Wendy won the Flash 500 Novel competition last year, so had every reason to believe in her writing ability. When she later landed a two-book deal she should have been happy to shout to the rooftops: ‘I’m a writer!’ But that wasn’t how she felt when someone asked her what she did for a living. ‘I hesitated before answering,’ Wendy said, but bit the bullet and told the truth. ‘I’m an author.’ Then came the self-doubt and anguish. She was in the grip of Imposter Syndrome. ‘How could I dare call myself an author? What cheek! What pretence! How conceited!’ She waited for one of the usual responses so many of us get when we finally pluck up enough courage to declare we are authors: Will I have read anything you’ve written? What a lovely hobby. I’ve got a little book in my head too. I’ll write it someday. Is it another Fifty Shades? Who is your publisher? Not Penguin? I’ve only heard of Penguin.