i think this is what they call imposter syndrome

Today, most of my writing is done for work (which feels unbelievably lucky to say!), and when I write for myself, it’s mainly in journals. Journalling is something I’ve done at pretty much every age, though most of the early notebooks were chucked into bin bags and incinerated long ago. And while part of me is sort of like, ‘omg… who does that?’ I also think it’s probably for the best. I can only imagine the level of CRINGE expressed on those pages would be too much to bear.

My recent journals aren’t exactly easy reads either, with their entries all out of order, penned on whatever page the book was opened to in the moment. It’s a chaotic way of doing things, true, but who cares when I’m the only one reading them? That said, I do wonder who would inevitably find these journals if anything were to happen to me. Would they keep the discovery to themselves or pass the journals around for everyone to read? That thought, while bleak and mortifying, is not entirely unfounded…

Anyone who’s ever kept a diary knows this is a nightmare scenario… and although I’m not a huge fan of Didion’s writing (I promise I will attempt her again someday), I feel a strange pull to read hers. Oops, I’m a hypocrite!

I’ve always found it so interesting to see how other people keep record of the things that happen to them, what details they take note of, and how they describe their emotions and experiences. Some people have a knack for saying so much in just a few words or making you feel like you’re in their shoes without trying. And even though there isn’t really a right way to journal, I totally feel like everyone is better at it than me. Perhaps in writing all my entries out of order, I’m just hoping to break the rules off the bat.

Anyone who writes will have doubts about how they go about doing so.

We all suffer from some degree of self-consciousness, wanting to express all that’s in our head while being worried how someone will perceive it. Even the most revered writers, let’s take Franz Kafka as an example, wrote draft after draft after draft before feeling satisfied with what was communicated on the page, if at all.

Reading excellent novels, articles by my favourite Substackers, and even eloquently typed INSTAGRAM CAPTIONS (jeez, that’s how you know the imposter syndrome is real) I’m always hoping that an elevated way of writing and describing and phrasing somehow rubs off on me. I’ve even found myself reading a Sephora review and thinking, ‘Wow, that was sort-of captivating’. Really?

But perhaps writing as a career has momentarily turned a much-loved hobby into a utility. When you do something as a routine – and primarily for other people – you can forget to play around and evolve. It’s understandable, then, that this makes those who do it for fun seem like they’re really putting their heart and soul into it in a way that you’re not.

Since we’re in June, I’m going to make a half-year resolution to write a little more often, with the unflappable free spirit of six-year-old me. Seriously, that girl knew what she was talking about!

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