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1988

Abstract

writing was wanting in elegance and vitality, it must be that I lacked the spark.If Amy Tan can…I had taken creative writing classes that focused mainly on style: passive voice, word choice, show vs. tell, and so forth. The syllabi barely skimmed the surface of outlining, plot pacing, and other structural elements. Style over substance.For the longest time, I equated quality writing with fine prose.It bothered me when I had to make structural changes — if I even had to switch paragraphs around. I believed that competent writers had scenes and sections arranged neatly in their heads before putting pen to paper.My process consisted of throwing globs of half-formed ideas at the wall and gluing together what stuck.But then I heard Amy Tan speak about how she had deleted an entire chapter (not just a couple of paras) when revising her novel, “Valley of Amazement.”I read two outlines for R.L. Stine’s book, “I am Slappy’s Evil Twin.” The only commonality between the two versions was the theme of the evil dummy. The setting, characters, and plot had been revised so drastically in the second version that it could have been an outline for a separate book.I thought: If best-selling authors can write imperfect drafts, then so can I.I dared to submit…I follow this erudite writer who blogs on WordPress. A couple of months back, he posted that he had been published in an online magazine called Idle Ink. I checked out his story, and then I browsed through some of the other fiction pieces, poems, and essays on the site.A thought bubbled up. Maybe I should submit my latest essay to this magazine.But then the Syndrome leaned over my shoulder and rasped into my ear: Your cozy

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little essay doesn’t fit in with these tautly written pieces. You’re asking for a rejection.Six months ago, the R-word would have scared me off faster than Miss Muffet off her Tuffet. But now, I was armed with the knowledge that even Stephen King and Kurt Vonnegut had racked up impressive collections of rejection letters.So, I buffed up the essay, formatted it as per the editor’s suggestion, and sent it off. The magazine had promised to respond within a month. I checked my mail twice every day for the next two weeks without hearing from them.I didn’t feel optimistic about my chances. But I knew that if the answer were “Nay,” it wouldn’t crush me. I would do what James Patterson or Dan Brown had done. I would approach other publications.But then, in the middle of week three, I was shocked to receive a “Yea” and a kind letter from the editor. The essay is up on Idle Ink in the April 2021 issue. (Url: <a href="http://idleink.org/">http://idleink.org</a>.) The title: Speaking English with an Accent, by Gauri Sirur.The knee-high imp…I don’t consider myself a brilliant writer. But for the last six months, I’ve been writing every day.I make stylistic and structural changes ruthlessly and fearlessly and emerge very nearly uncrushed.I now read with a writerly eye.Most of all, I keep pushing myself to write with — I hope — candor and authenticity.The Syndrome still hangs around just in case I get too comfortable or complacent. But it’s shrunk from bus-sized monster to knee-high imp. It’s small enough that I can look it in the eye and tell it where to get off. Because — brilliant or not — I feel more a writer now and less an impostor.</article></body>

How I Went From Impostor to Writer

Dealing with the Impostor Syndrome.

The Impostor Syndrome is loosely defined as: Doubting your abilities and believing that you’ve succeeded due to luck rather than your talent or qualifications.

I had been posting my essays on Facebook for ten years. Finally, I gathered up enough courage to submit a handful of these to various magazines.

I was rewarded with a mixed bag of acceptances and rejections. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a rejection, but rather a grudging acceptance — and the magazine’s editing of my piece down to an inch of its life — which led me to question my skills as a writer.

I began to view acceptances as flukes. I saw rejections as affirmation that my writing was too narrow in scope and wanting in heft. The Impostor Syndrome had added yet another scalp to its belt.

Taking lessons from Salman Rushdie…

To improve my craft, I began watching AuthorTube videos, which gave my daughter, Nammi, the idea for my perfect birthday gift this year — a one-year subscription to Masterclass.

Soon I was taking “one-on-one” lessons from the likes of Carol Joyce Oates and Salman Rushdie.

The authors offered instruction about style and content distilled from their own life and writing experiences. More significantly, they opened my eyes to the life of a professional writer.

I had never seen myself as a professional writer. I saw that title as a high bar that I could aspire to but never reach.

I believed that the quality of writing was determined almost exclusively by a writer’s innate genius or talent. Therefore, if my own writing was wanting in elegance and vitality, it must be that I lacked the spark.

If Amy Tan can…

I had taken creative writing classes that focused mainly on style: passive voice, word choice, show vs. tell, and so forth. The syllabi barely skimmed the surface of outlining, plot pacing, and other structural elements. Style over substance.

For the longest time, I equated quality writing with fine prose.

It bothered me when I had to make structural changes — if I even had to switch paragraphs around. I believed that competent writers had scenes and sections arranged neatly in their heads before putting pen to paper.

My process consisted of throwing globs of half-formed ideas at the wall and gluing together what stuck.

But then I heard Amy Tan speak about how she had deleted an entire chapter (not just a couple of paras) when revising her novel, “Valley of Amazement.”

I read two outlines for R.L. Stine’s book, “I am Slappy’s Evil Twin.” The only commonality between the two versions was the theme of the evil dummy. The setting, characters, and plot had been revised so drastically in the second version that it could have been an outline for a separate book.

I thought: If best-selling authors can write imperfect drafts, then so can I.

I dared to submit…

I follow this erudite writer who blogs on WordPress. A couple of months back, he posted that he had been published in an online magazine called Idle Ink. I checked out his story, and then I browsed through some of the other fiction pieces, poems, and essays on the site.

A thought bubbled up. Maybe I should submit my latest essay to this magazine.

But then the Syndrome leaned over my shoulder and rasped into my ear: Your cozy little essay doesn’t fit in with these tautly written pieces. You’re asking for a rejection.

Six months ago, the R-word would have scared me off faster than Miss Muffet off her Tuffet. But now, I was armed with the knowledge that even Stephen King and Kurt Vonnegut had racked up impressive collections of rejection letters.

So, I buffed up the essay, formatted it as per the editor’s suggestion, and sent it off. The magazine had promised to respond within a month. I checked my mail twice every day for the next two weeks without hearing from them.

I didn’t feel optimistic about my chances. But I knew that if the answer were “Nay,” it wouldn’t crush me. I would do what James Patterson or Dan Brown had done. I would approach other publications.

But then, in the middle of week three, I was shocked to receive a “Yea” and a kind letter from the editor. The essay is up on Idle Ink in the April 2021 issue. (Url: http://idleink.org.) The title: Speaking English with an Accent, by Gauri Sirur.

The knee-high imp…

I don’t consider myself a brilliant writer. But for the last six months, I’ve been writing every day.

I make stylistic and structural changes ruthlessly and fearlessly and emerge very nearly uncrushed.

I now read with a writerly eye.

Most of all, I keep pushing myself to write with — I hope — candor and authenticity.

The Syndrome still hangs around just in case I get too comfortable or complacent. But it’s shrunk from bus-sized monster to knee-high imp. It’s small enough that I can look it in the eye and tell it where to get off. Because — brilliant or not — I feel more a writer now and less an impostor.