Almost exactly a year ago, I was at the Hedgebrook Writing Residency on Whidbey Island, off the coast of Seattle, after two years of pandemic delays since my acceptance. When I had first read of Hedgebrook, I had looked dreamily at its cottages and its promise of nurture, telling myself “some day, a place like this will want to support my work, someday I will be good enough!” When I applied a couple of years later, only because all the blogs about getting into Hedgebrook tell you that you may have to apply many times so might as well get started, I was stunned to be immediately accepted.
The clincher, though, is what came next. My response wasn’t “Oh wow, I guess I’m already at this interesting place in my writing that people want to support”. My response was “Oh, I guess I overestimated how competitive Hedgebrook is. It must actually be easy to get in”. The residency’s 2% global acceptance rate had not changed, but some kink in my brain decided to lower the prestige of the acceptance rather than feel validated by it. And it wasn’t the first time I’ve done that.
At any rate, I went, very gratefully, and the residency was even more than it promised: It nursed me back to myself after the burnout of two pandemic years; it nurtured something gentle in me, something committed to my words for the joy and struggle of my words. It birthed new friendships, new ways of caring about people, and new projects (including this Substack!). One of the most striking aspects of the residency was reading the cottage journals kept by the other writers who had lived and worked in my cottage over the last 30 years— and in these journals, I discovered that pretty much every single one of these women had felt like an impostor.
There’s a sign in that gorgeous pine forest, on the path that leads from the shared areas towards the cottages where writers live— this simple etched-into-wood sign that says “writers in residence.” Crossing it the first time can be a bit like crossing a threshold, and many of the women who lived in my cottage wrote about how it made them panic; one in particular wrote about how, when the guide during the welcome tour would point out “the writers live here…” or “the writers meet at …” or “the wood for the writers’ woodstoves…”, she found herself panicking “Okay, so that’s where the writers go, and what about me? Where do I go?”
I chuckled when I read this because it was so resonant. Indeed, what about me?
I’m not sure if there is a gendered dimension to impostor syndrome, or if folks from marginalised communities in general feel it more acutely after lifetimes of being told they don’t deserve a seat at the table. I do know that it’s ridiculously common among creatives, this feeling behind closed doors of “but do I really count as an artist?”
My answer to students over the decades has been the same “Do you make art? Then sure, you’re an artist!” (or “Do you write? Then yes, you are a writer!”). I stand by that— the doing of creativity is for me the main barometer for whether one is creative, in whatever way— much more than some kind of innate gift of creativity.
And yet, that often isn’t enough. Life has caught me off guard in the two or three few years, for example, in a way that has pretty much kept me from making a single new mug or bowl, leave alone more interesting work in clay. In my writing too, I find myself dipping in and out, showing up everyday for a few weeks, and then disappearing altogether for other weeks (even months!). And then, there is the fact that I currently hate the draft of my manuscript I know I have to plod through in order to eventually make it better— I am painfully aware of how bad it is right now, and I keep at it anyway with some kind of blind faith int he process of revision. But along that path, of course it is easy to let the impostor syndrome creep in: Are you sure you’re legit? Are you really a writer? Are you a good writer?
I don’t have a remedy for this, and I am not searching for one. I have, instead, the knowledge of excellent company, the reminder that so many of the artists and writers I respect have the same questions, and they too plod on anyway. If anything, I want to believe that that tentativeness can serve our art, like the Wendell Berry’s “How to Be a Poet” that cautions: “Any readers who like your poems, doubt their judgement.” Or this brilliant poem by Vijay Nambisan about the dangers of letting the identity of being an artist get in the way of making art:
Elizabeth Oomanchery
Elizabeth Oomanchery The celebrated poetess Went to the corner shop To buy a loaf of bread. The shopman said, “Excuse me, “Aren’t you Elizabeth Oomanchery, “The celebrated poetess?” So Elizabeth Oomanchery went home. Elizabeth Oomanchery Sat at her desk one evening To write herself a poem. The poem asked, “Excuse me, “Aren’t you Elizabeth Oomanchery, “The celebrated poetess?” Elizabeth Oomanchery Said “Yes,” So the poem went home.” Better to be an impostor than to be Elizabeth Oomancherry-- I guess that is what I'm saying. If you feel like an impostor too, know that you're in good company, and make your art anyway!
for the longest time, I didn't call myself a writer, even now so hesitatingly. it feels like I am keeping a tag that is not mine to keep. I loved reading this and nodding along <3
I love that poem! And congrats on the Hedgebrook residency--I have always wanted to go but my imposter feels have discouraged me from even applying. I do find it strangely heartening to hear that this feeling is shared even among the writers in residence, though! Thanks for the post, definitely needed to hear this today.