The first time I encountered the term âimposter syndromeâ was when I became a Royal Literary Fund Fellow. As I started in the role, I wondered whether there had been some kind of mistake. Over the decades Iâd taught myself to write. This was through a combination of writing a lot, reading a lot, and good old application: those hours spent in the library learning punctuation might just have paid off after all.
My sense of being an imposter was underpinned by the fact that I didnât go to university myself â yet there I was, about to impart words of wisdom to aid anxious students seeking to improve their writing. When I told my mentor how I felt, she told me sheâd harboured exactly the same feelings. That was a few years ago, but I now seem to come across the phrase âimposter syndromeâ almost daily. Just about everybody, it seems, is an imposter.
The dictionary on my computer defines the word thus:
impostor | ÉȘmËpÉstÉ | (also imposter)
noun
a person who pretends to be someone else in order to deceive others, especially for fraudulent gainâŠ
The suggestion that weâre all pretending to be someone else begs the question, who is anyone really? And if weâre always being someone else, when are we ourselves? Do we even know who we are?
The kingâs new clothes
The reality is that weâre not one person â weâre any number of people. Throughout every day we shift from one personality to another, depending on circumstances. We censor ourselves. Change the language we use. Tailor our non-verbal signals to be appropriate for the company, context and message.
In any given circumstance, there are things we can and canât say; things we donât want to say; choices we make about the story weâre telling about our life and who we are. Weâre so used to being told stories that when we tell them to ourselves theyâre easy to believe. After all, weâre not going to tell ourselves an untruth, are we.
Are we?
The problem is that âstoriesâ â the kind weâre used to in novels, TV programmes and film, etc. â are created. Theyâre shaped to fit a narrative arc, controlled, tidied up, written to a formula and edited. But our stories have to fit into messy and unpredictable lives. And regardless of accuracy, they become self-perpetuating.
The person whoâs been told since childhood that sheâs âa bit scattyâ, âpaints a pretty picture but doesnât get to the pointâ, or âisnât that brightâ is likely to believe this story, and retell it to others as she grows older. The person with untidy handwriting whoâs been told heâs not very good at expressing himself is likely to believe that, regardless of how true it is, and even though these obstacles are surmountable.
Unlearning stories is difficult. They tend to originate from trusted sources, and are reinforced by repetition. They become familiar tales of identity. They embroider the fabric of our lives, and give us a comfortable pigeonhole to settle into.
As our experience increases, so does the number of identities weâre able to adopt. And hereâs where things can get tricky. Perhaps this continuous, imperceptible shifting that seems necessary to get through life is whatâs at the heart of imposter syndrome: when it comes to the crunch and weâre confronted by an entirely new situation thatâs outside anything weâve experienced before, our suspension of disbelief collapses.
Lacking a narrative that fits, the illusion suddenly becomes apparent, and we feel like a fake. To change is to step outside the comfort zone, which increases uncertainty and raises the prospect of the thing we fear most: failure.
Keeping things the same gives us a sense of safety and control, when in reality we donât control much of anything. All we can really do is point the ship in the right direction and hope for the best.
But any story can be altered, edited, rewritten. Changing our stories can turn a negative to a positive, rewrite the narrative arc, set our ship on a new course if thatâs what we want. That isnât something we tend to do, because not changing things is the much easier option. Rewriting is as difficult as unlearning, but both get easier with practise. So, while rewriting to change things isnât easy or quick, it is possible.
To get going, just start by making a list. Then expand upon the points you feel drawn towards; donât think, just feel and write. A minor alteration now could set you on course for an entirely new destination.
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Martin Sketchley 