Impostor Syndrome and Other Fun Ways to Hate Yourself

23 Mar, 2025

When I am alone in my room, staring at the blank page of my expensive laptop, surrounded by old books full of wisdom and beautiful tales, I think of myself as the biggest fraud in the name of a writer. I haven’t duped your mom, so be wary before you hate me—you’ll have plenty of reasons to hate me. I’ll give them all to you, but be patient enough to read through my mundane writing.

I think I am a fraud because all the beautiful writing I read in those books I buy makes me realize I haven’t created anything of that sort. Then I scroll through Twitter for a while and come across mediocre writers, as well as some good ones, and I feel better, realizing that the whole world is going crazy. I cannot blame myself alone for this mediocrity. I have realized that I can’t blame everything on pollutants. I’ve already blamed the bad air for my premature greying of hair, but for mediocre writing, I think I’ll have to take the blame—there’s no other option left.

I have this strong feeling that I might not be a good writer, just someone who can write or type. Maybe I'm a typist with a vocabulary. And if, with this knowledge, I keep on writing, then wouldn’t that make me a fraud? I’m not proud of all the essays I’ve written. I’m just proud of the simple things I’ve narrated logically in all of them. But if you ask me which essays I’d want people to read after I die, I’d probably pick five. So, naturally, I dig deeper into those essays I like—what’s so special about them? Turns out, there isn’t anything special. They’re all on topics I have personally suffered through.

Before you jump at me with a eureka moment and motivational quotes, hear me out. I didn’t start writing to share my personal suffering, much like I am doing right now. I thought I would tell stories. But then, I have outlined stories worth two novels and five short stories—and written none of them. I was convinced that I should write because I have a vividly active imagination. But then, so does a teenage boy experiencing arousal for the first time who hasn’t discovered porn yet.

The gurus say you should write to gain clarity, which I partially agree with. But the more I write about my mediocrity in writing, the more I am convinced that I am right. Am I gaining clarity, or is my mind playing devil with me? I enjoy writing more than I’ve ever enjoyed anything. I don’t love food, I’m a terrible dancer, and I can’t sketch—not even a straight line with a ruler in hand to save my life. But I read a lot and think about things a lot. I love to observe people (read: judge people’s actions) and dive deeper into why they do what they do—what motivates them to goof up.

That pretty much sums up the source of my writing ideas. But stories are different. I’m biased about them. I wish more people were biased about my stories and bought my books, but I sold books in double digits—so that’s a start. I can’t even consider myself a bestseller in my own family because not even my family has read my book. So you can guess the level of motivation I’m going through, and this impostor syndrome is only adding kerosene to the fire.

I thought maybe I hate my writing because I haven’t learned it the right way—the formal way. I have learned storytelling by reading stories. I don’t remember how many books I’ve read—maybe upwards of 500—because that’s how many I have bothered to review on Goodreads. But all those stories have helped me understand how a story can be told. I even tried a formal writing course on Coursera, but they said to create characters your readers would care about by giving them flaws. So I had to cancel the course because I don’t want to label my readers as stupid—even though they are only a handful.

I have also thought about this impostor syndrome, as popularized on social media. I’ll forever be grateful to the bunch of people who coined the term; otherwise, I would have always considered myself just mediocre. But then—what if I am a mediocre writer? One who can’t even hook a reader for a whole essay, can’t even make them laugh, ponder, or feel bad for me?

So, in the end, I have arrived at a conclusion that is a win-win for me and a lose-lose for my audience. Because let’s be honest—I wasn’t going to quit writing. It’s like asking a fatso to stop eating donuts. That person would most likely find a “healthy” version of a donut but wouldn’t quit it. That’s precisely what I’m going to do. I will stick to a writing style that is moderately tolerable for my audience and one that doesn’t make me feel utterly rubbish. And if I fail to please even those twelve people who read my work, then I might think of converting them into my disciples and starting a religion. But I’ll try to become a writer my reader’s soul could tolerate.

If you are among the rarest of the rare breed of audience who reads my work, I’d love to hear from you. Till then, I’m sorry for putting you through the ordeal of my writing. Stay strong—there’s going to be more of it.