I’ve been on a roll at work—getting manuscripts and illustrations approved left and right, books for young readers published, and finishing a client’s third commissioned picture book. I’ve even gotten a title change at my full-time job. Out with junior graphic designer, in with writer and illustrator. The title has improved but the job stays the same. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy what I do. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do for a living. Having an official title is what I’ve advocated for, and my boss, gods bless her, was a rock star for advocating it, too.
But why is my imposter syndrome still so strong?
I recently regret the time I spend gaming instead of writing, reading, or illustrating my personal projects. Am I allowed to do things other than the latter? Do I deserve it, the identity that I’ve so carefully curated around myself when I unabashedly ignore it for petty vices?
Recently, I submitted two short stories for a creative journal in the Philippines, a call for submission for works previously unpublished. I have so many unpublished works in my arsenal, and I chose two that I felt were on-theme to the Filipino experience, with witches and androids abound. This journal has previously featured many of my writing professors and award-winning writers who went through political and historical struggles. Do I really think I could just join their ranks, to be among creative geniuses and academic writers? Me, someone who writes about witches and androids?
“It would be a great honor to be a part of the 17th issue…” I wrote on my cover letter, after I revealed how I only began to read Filipino works in college after growing up consuming books written mostly by white people.
Thinking about the non-existent but possible rejection, the defeatism, hurts now. But once the actual rejection comes, I can say “Well, I tried.”
But then I read the two-paragraph biographical sketch that I had to include in the submission. I spoke about my early sci-fi short story being published in an anthology. I referred to my time judging a children’s book writing competition for students because people had trusted my expertise. I may have not yet published the short stories or novels that I have been working on (mostly because I haven’t done much self-editing and let alone finding an editor to look at them), but I’ve written and illustrated children’s books for work that are on their way to being published this year.
Those two short paragraphs about my career as a writer make me feel at ease. It almost dissolved my imposter syndrome. I mean, I did the work, didn’t I? Don’t I get to call myself a writer when I do the work? Do I have to be traditionally published in order to fully identify myself as such? What else should I do? These questions tend to swim in my thoughts, then I continue to look for more calls for submissions for my short stories and continue to write my novel.
One step at a time.