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Courage to overcome the impostor: Advice for writers

Image shows a statue of a person who is holding up a mask and revealing a true face Who do you think you are? What makes you think you can call yourself a writer? You know they were just being polite when they claimed they liked your writing. It’s only a matter of time before everyone realises you have no talent. Nobody wants to read what you write. You’ve got nothing original or interesting to say.

Let me be clear: I am not saying these horrible things to you, and I never would. But I bet you’ve said something like this to yourself at some point. I know I have.

It would be a rare writer indeed who did not wrestle with some level of self-doubt. For some, however, those uneasy feelings go deeper, leading us to believe that we are genuinely unworthy of our efforts and achievements. If heeded, such feelings can fool us into thinking we are nothing more than fakes, frauds, phonies—not ‘real’ writers at all.

Impostors, in fact.

Known by various names, the impostor complex is a treacherous tangle of thoughts that seek to convince you any success you experience is due to luck or chance or circumstance—or maybe it was the weather? Whatever the case, it was not the result of any effort, skill, or ability on your part. And by the way, you know you’re never going fluke a win like that again, right?

The impostor complex exhorts you to believe that any minute now—indeed, any second—you will be exposed as the incapable, inadequate, talentless charlatan you feel yourself to be. And it keeps viciously insisting, against all evidence, that you’re not ready, you’re not good enough, you don’t deserve it, you shouldn’t, you mustn’t, you can’t.

Honestly? It’s exhausting just writing about it, let alone having those ideas gnawing remorselessly at you.

If such erroneous notions are eroding your confidence, here are a few things to keep in mind.

1. According to Tanya Geisler, an expert in this area, the impostor complex affects high functioning, high achieving people who hold strong values of integrity, mastery, and excellence. That’s you, incidentally, even if you don’t recognise yourself in that description. (You see how this works?)

2. The impostor complex only shows up when something really matters to you. It diminishes your existing accomplishments and makes shaky every potential new venture. If you feel it in relation to your writing, take it as a sign of how important your words and your role as a writer are to you.

3. Three effects of the impostor complex are to make you doubt your capacity, to prevent you from acting, and to keep you isolated. Clearly, none of that is fun, and nor is it particularly conducive to writing.

4. Appearances to the contrary, it’s highly likely that everyone you have ever respected, most of the people you have met, and all those you wish you could be more like feel this way too. Yes. All of them. You are in good company.

5. While it is unlikely that the impostor complex can ever be completely defeated, there are ways to curtail its effects. I strongly recommend that you start identifying and practising these.

Some suggestions for overcoming the impostor complex include:

recognising it for what it is: a malicious mess of conjecture that is as unhelpful as it is untrue
understanding that your doubts are not proof of your inability but rather an indication of your desire to meet your own (almost certainly unfeasibly) high standards of integrity, excellence, and mastery
questioning the accuracy of the messages you receive about yourself, your work, and your worth, whether these arise internally or come from external sources
giving yourself generous evidence of your abilities, resources, achievements, and brilliance, because you have an abundance of these, even if you don’t always acknowledge them
making meaningful and supportive connections, and—here’s the tricky bit—actually believing these people when they encourage and praise you
developing the capacity to encourage and praise yourself; after all, if your mind can persuade you to think you’re an impostor, it can also point out that you’re not.

There are lots of other strategies you might try, but my advice to help you face the impostor complex is to just keep writing.

Keep making, keep doing, keep creating, despite what those vicious whispers tell you. Use your voice and cultivate the courage to trust that your work matters—that YOU matter—because it’s true.

Truer than any impostor could be.

Now it’s your turn…

How has the impostor complex affected your writing? What strategies do you use to subdue it? Are there any resources or tools on this topic that you can recommend to others?

Note: Much of the information for this article came from the work of Tanya Geisler. If you’d like to know more, please visit her online. And for those pondering the correct spelling of impostor/imposter, have a read of this.

Why I provide sample edits

Editors are curious individuals—almost as quirky as authors. While there are certain principles of clear communication and grammatical accuracy to which most editors will adhere, each of us has our own idiosyncrasies and inclinations. When it works, the relationship between a writer and an editor can be enjoyable, enlightening and inspiring for both people. But how can you tell if it’s going to be like this?

One way I try to address this question is by providing my potential clients with a sample edit.

Here’s how it works. When you contact me, I get an initial sense of whether or not I am the right editor for you. If I think we may work well together, I will ask you to send me your manuscript, assuring you that I’ll keep it safe and confidential while it is in my care. I then edit part of the text, generally beginning at the beginning. I use track changes in Microsoft Word when editing. This allows you to see the changes I make, and it enables me to include comments, questions, observations and suggestions within the document.

The image below shows an example of an original draft, adapted from an article previously published on this website.

And this is what the text looks like when it is marked up using track changes.

As you can see, I have made a few corrections (shown in the text in green), along with some suggestions (in the blue comment boxes on the right-hand side).

Taking these corrections and suggestions into consideration, here’s how the revised version might read.

Of course, if you had written these paragraphs and had received this sample edit from me, you might have made different decisions about their final form. That’s the delightful thing about writing and editing: they are both expressions of unique creativity and are both so open to interpretation and invention.

By providing you with a sample edit, I give you the opportunity to see if your creativity and mine align. When they do, we each have the chance to engage in an artful and enjoyable experience of editing.

Now it’s your turn…

Have you ever received a sample edit from an editor? Did that influence your decision to work with that person? What insights or information do you want to have before you choose who will edit your writing?

Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

When editing gets distressing

Close-up image of artfully cracked and distressed concrete Try as we might to avoid it, editing can sometimes be distressing. After putting their hearts into their craft, writers can feel slighted and even assaulted by the comments, questions, corrections, and suggestions that editors strew through their manuscripts. Although it is never an editor’s intention to cause anguish, the distress that writers might feel at having their words so closely scrutinised is real.

If you ever find yourself in this situation, here are some points to keep in mind.

1. Time

Artful writing requires time, but skilful editing does too. While some people relish a last-minute rush, many of us respond less well to such pressure. Distress can arise when you do not allow yourself enough time to consider and implement your editor’s suggestions. This is especially so if significant or structural changes are proposed.

You may, on the first reading, disagree—even vehemently—with what your editor has done and said. But if you let the ideas settle a little and return to them at a different time, in a different frame of mind, you might find they have some merit. Notice your reactions, but do not act on them immediately. Nor is it advisable to fire off an instant and upset message to your editor, whose focus is on achieving the best outcome for your manuscript.

Wait a bit. Take a breath. Have a think.

If you still feel overwhelmed or aggrieved after some time has passed, compose yourself and get in touch with your editor. A calm response is likely to produce a better result for you and your writing.

2. Communication

From the first contact between writer and editor, clear and honest communication is vital on both sides. In addition to describing your project and your passion for it, you need to tell your editor your concerns and aspirations regarding your manuscript. At the same time, your editor should articulate her approach and explain the suggestions and corrections she makes. This exchange must continue throughout the process to enable the writer and editor to understand one another. Each will then have a sense of how revisions are evolving and where adjustments need to be made. Sometimes changes to the text are necessary for reasons of clarity or grammar, but without explanation from the editor, such corrections can appear capricious.

If you feel your editor has misunderstood an aspect of your story or has indicated alterations that you feel compromise your writing, it is important to discuss this. After allowing yourself some time and inhaling those few deep breaths, share your concerns with your editor. None of us gets into this with intention of causing harm to anyone, and confusion or conflict can often be resolved through conversation.

3. Respect

As vital as time and communication are when dealing with distress that may arise from editing, the key to it all is respect. You need to respect your editor as someone who loves good writing and has specialised knowledge of language and how it works. This is not to say that editors always have the right answers, never make mistakes, and do not let personal preferences influence their work. We’re human too. But if you have asked an editor to help you with your writing, trust in her expertise and show respect for her ideas before you react against them.

At the same time, give yourself respect as a writer. You know your story, your style, your topic, and your purpose better than anyone else. Although you may not be able to spot the flaws in your own words, you know their truth, and it is this that enables you to see which of your editor’s suggestions will enhance your writing and which may hinder it.

Be willing to listen and remain open to possibilities that you might not have imagined. The gift of working with an editor is that you engage in a relationship with an expert who is both professional and partisan, objective and interested.

In the end, we’re always on your side.

Writing is a joyful, difficult, beautiful, challenging, invigorating endeavour, and so is editing. The process of having your writing edited can sometimes be confronting, but if writers and editors alike embrace the grace of time, communication, and respect, it need not be the cause of any distress.

Now it’s your turn…

Have you ever found editing to be distressing? What strategies did you use to manage that situation? What advice would you give to editors or writers to help make editing more meaningful and enjoyable?

May or might: A helpful guide

An old-fashioned gramophone If you have ever wondered about when it’s right to say “may” and when to use “might”, you may find this article interesting. Then again, you might not. Either way, let’s investigate.

Both “may” and “might” are modal auxiliary verbs. This means they accompany other verbs and indicate inclination, intention, potential, necessity, actuality, ability, and so on. For example:

I might have already confused you suggests the potential that I have caused confusion.
You may disagree with this implies that this outcome is not absolute or certain.

In these examples, the words “might” and “may” could be switched without causing a significant shift in meaning:

I may have confused you.
You might disagree.

Indeed, when referring to possibility or permission, these two verbs are often used interchangeably, but there is a subtle difference between them. In most cases, “may” infers a higher likelihood of something, whereas “might” implies that it is less probable.

There are, however, other instances when either “may” or “might” is more correct, so here is a hopefully helpful though by no means definitive guide to choosing between them.

Use “may”

when granting or refusing permission (You may speak, but you may not leave)
when expressing a hope or wish (May you be well)
to concede a point (Be that as it may, I couldn’t possibly agree)
to acknowledge something before putting forward an opposing opinion (You may find this boring, but it is useful to know).

Use “might”

as the past tense form of may (Perhaps I might have explained that better)
when referring to hypothetical situations (If I wrote a musical about apostrophes, it might delight audiences)
when talking about things that did not happen, to avoid confusion with “may have” when it means to give permission (compare I might not have thought that musical idea through properly with I may not do that, noting that the former expresses the possibility of my not doing something, while the latter implies that I am not allowed to do it)
to indicate irritation over something someone could have or should have done (You might have warned me).

Use either

when referring to possibility or expressing uncertainty about events in the present or future (keeping in mind that “may” generally suggests something is more likely, and “might” implies it is less so)
when politely making a request or seeking permission (noting that “might” is more formal, as in Might I trouble you for a cup of tea?)
to indicate an intention (I explain this so you may understand it better or so you might understand it better).

It is important to note that while “might” is the past tense of “may”, many grammarians argue that either word is acceptable when referring to past actions and events, but only if the truth about those actions and event is unknown. I could therefore say:

I may have inspired you to learn more about language after reading this article, or
I might have inspired you to learn more about language after reading this article.

Much as I hope that I have inspired you, I do not know if this is true, so both sentences may be considered correct. When talking about events that definitely did not happen, however, “might” is the better choice:

I might have been a famous writer of musicals, but I became an editor instead.

Now that I’ve (maybe) explained the nuances of “may” and “might”, I’m off to find a word that rhymes with “apostrophe”.

You never know; I might find one.

Now it’s your turn…

Has this article helped you to understand which word to use when? In your view, should “might” always be used when referring to past events? And if you happen to know a rhyme for “apostrophe”, would you be so kind as to share it with me?

The role of rhythm in lively and enticing writing

A small temple bell There are moments in life that echo with unexpected resonance. They arise like reminders of a truth held deep in your being that you may not recognise or express until it is brought to light by an external catalyst. Such moments occur for me when I’m wandering through an art gallery and find myself drawn to certain works that rouse a powerful response. They happen, too, when I’m reading and I encounter an image or phrase that renders the world more lucid or beautiful. Then there are the times when a comment from an admired author illuminates an intrinsic understanding.

A recent instance of this arose from an observation by Philip Pullman on the significance of rhythm in his process. In an interview with the BBC, he said:

“When I’m writing, I’m more conscious of the sound, actually, than the meaning. I know what the rhythm of the sentence is going to be before I know what the words are going to be in it. That’s a very important factor in the way I write … I have to have silence, so I can hear the rhythm.”

This reflection resonated with me because it describes, to some extent, the way that I write, but it also alludes to how—and sometimes what and why—I edit. Much of my work involves sensing and finessing the rhythm in sentences, paragraphs and whole manuscripts.

Punctuation has a role in this, of course. There are the varying pauses offered by commas, semicolons, dashes and full stops. There’s the space that is made by a paragraph or line break, as well as the emphasis implied by an exclamation mark, the rising note of a question mark, the trailing off of an ellipsis… The length of sentences and placement of phrases in relation to their neighbours also alter the tone.

But mostly, it’s the words themselves: how they interplay and the way they sound.

Beyond the simple yet undeniable effects of syllables and stress, many rhetorical devices may contribute to the melody of a text. Assonance, consonance and alliteration can all be employed; variety, repetition and rhyme too. There is an abundance of techniques that will give rhythm to your writing, but the best approach is to nourish an individual instinct for it.

Tuning in to the rhythm in writing begins with listening to how it sounds. Always read your words aloud, and pursue opportunities to hear good writing by others, either at live events or in the form of audiobooks, podcasts and so on. You might also seek out speeches—as both recordings and transcripts—delivered by eloquent orators, or consider the way that music might inform the balance, pacing and inflection of your sentences.

Better yet, listen to poetry.

There is perhaps no better way to cultivate an appreciation of rhythm in writing than to immerse yourself in poems. Let the musicality of the words, their pitch and lilt, their harmony and sonority, and even their dissonance reverberate through you.

Philip Pullman lauds the potency of poetry, noting that it, initially more than stories, was “the great key” for him. Speaking with Michael Williams from the Wheeler Centre, he commented that:

“I loved poetry; I loved the sound it made. I didn’t understand it always, but I didn’t need to understand it because I’d got the idea that if I just spoke it, if I read it aloud, it would communicate something to me, and it did, and it still does.”

We may not all have the ability to write like the author of His Dark Materials, but whether you craft your sentences by placing cadence before content or you tinker with the tempo later when editing, having an awareness of rhythm is, in my view, vital for devising lively and enticing writing.

It invites readers in, guides and beguiles them, and it may even help kindle those glorious moments of resonance.

Now it’s your turn…

Are you aware of rhythm as you write? Do you appreciate it when reading what others have written? What tactics or techniques do you use to improve the rhythm of your sentences?