The Impostor Has Entered the Chat
On Writing, Worth, and the Quiet Voice That Says You Don’t Belong
There’s a moment that sneaks up on every writer. It doesn’t matter if you’ve outlined the story to perfection, crafted dialogue that rings in your head like music, or poured five years into a novel that now lives, printed and bound, in your hands. The moment still comes. And it whispers:
“You don’t belong here.”
“You’re not a real writer.”
“They’re going to find out.”
Impostor Syndrome.
The phrase has become a buzzword in creative circles, but the experience is deeply personal. It isn’t loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. Subtle. A slow erosion of confidence from the inside out. For me, it doesn’t show up with fanfare—it’s more like a draft through a cracked window. And sometimes I don’t even notice until I’ve started questioning everything I’ve built.
I’ve written a novel I’m proud of. Transmigrant is a story that lives in my bones—one that took root and grew not through formulas, but through discovery. The characters didn’t spring from a list of traits; they emerged like people I’d known all my life. Ray Decker. Kaylie Stewart. Estia. I know these names like I know my own. I’ve watched them suffer. I’ve cheered for them. I’ve loved them.
And still, there are days I wonder if any of it counts.
Because I’m not traditionally published. Because I don’t have a movie deal. Because marketing isn’t my strong suit and sales take time. Because somewhere, a voice insists that unless the world crowns me with external validation, I don’t get to call myself a writer. That I’m just pretending.
But let me say this—if you’ve ever heard that voice too, you’re not alone. In fact, the people who care the most often hear it the loudest.
I’ve realized something: impostor syndrome doesn’t show up because you’re unworthy. It shows up because the work matters to you. It’s a cruel kind of proof that you’ve invested something real—heart, soul, hours, and hope. You want your words to mean something. You want them to land. And that hope is vulnerable.
So of course the voice creeps in. Because if you didn’t care, it wouldn’t have power over you.
But here’s what I’ve learned, and maybe it’ll help someone else too:
The moment you create something out of nothing, you’re no longer an impostor. You’re an artist. A builder of worlds. A shaper of silence into meaning. You’re already doing the thing. And that’s what makes you real.
You may not feel like a writer every day. But that doesn’t change the truth. The act of writing—especially when it’s hard—is what makes you one.
And if your characters feel like friends… if you think about them when you’re not writing, if they whisper when your hands are on the keyboard, if you miss them when you’re away—then you’ve done something extraordinary.
That’s not a symptom of delusion. That’s a sign you’ve told the truth.
So when impostor syndrome creeps in again (because it will), I try to remember this:
I’ve made something beautiful.
I’ve told a story only I could tell.
And I’m not faking that. I lived it.
And so did Kaylie Stewart. And Ray. And Estia.
They’re still with me.
And they’re real.
So maybe the impostor is the voice that says otherwise.
And maybe it’s time to stop listening.
Transmigrant, my survival thriller novel, in a speculative fiction setting, is available on Amazon and Audible.
I’m encouraged 🥹