Blog 73 - Imposter Syndrome

Blog 73 - Imposter Syndrome

September 2025

Alright, settle in and grab a cuppa, because I've got another burning question for you. (Actually it’s mostly for myself, but I suspect some of you might nod along in solidarity). It's a question that rattles around in my brain during those quiet, predawn hours when I'm supposed to be optimising security camera angles, but my mind invariably wanders to plot points and character arcs. So, here it is: Why do I call myself a writer?
Now, before you scoff, hear me out. The obvious answer is, of course, "Because I write" And yes, I do. I write. A lot. My hard drive groans under the weight of half-finished novels, sprawling short stories and blog posts like this one. I even have enough poetic musings to make Dylan Thomas jealous, If I think it, I write it. Seriously, the frantic tap-tap-tapping of my keyboard is the soundtrack to my life. Although it usually after plays midnight, it is always fuelled by lukewarm coffee and the desperate hope that this time, the words will resonate with someone. But that's not what I mean.
You see, there are real writers out there. Proper, bona fide, card-carrying authors with ink-stained fingers and a Pulitzer-Prize proudly displayed on the mantelpiece. We're talking about the published authors whose books grace the shelves of Waterstones and Amazon alike. The columnists whose insightful prose shape public opinion. The journalists who chase stories with the tenacity of a starved wolverine. Scriptwriters, poet laureates and playwrights whose words echo in grand theatres and across the silver screen. These are the titans, the wordsmiths who will be remembered throughout history. These are the writers who have not only made a significant dent in the literary world but probably carved out entire new mountain ranges.
And then there's me. Someone who, frankly, hasn't even scratched the surface of the literary landscape. My biggest publishing credit to date was a particularly witty poem about puppies at Christmas (which got highly commended in the under fifteen-year-olds category and published in the school yearbook, thank you very much). I haven't been reviewed by the New York Times, nor have I graced the bestseller lists. My literary agent is currently a figment of my vivid imagination, and my biggest fan was probably my Mum, a published author in her own right, who, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, lived her life thinking I was going to write the next great fantasy epic.
So, lets revise the question, why do I insist on calling myself a writer Or am I just suffering from Imposter syndrome?
It's a curious thing, this self-identification. Because despite the lack of external validation, the unread manuscripts, and the occasional overwhelming self-doubt that my words are just… words, I feel like a writer. It's less a job title and more a state of being. It's the way my brain is wired, constantly observing, cataloguing, imagining. Every conversation is a potential dialogue, every stranger a potential character. A quiet cafe isn't just a place for coffee; it's a scene waiting to unfold. The silent, watchful gaze of CCTV monitors during my night shifts becomes a backdrop for internal narratives.
It's a compulsion, an undeniable urge to assemble my thoughts into some form of story and fill the page. It's the thrill of a sentence landing just right, the agony of a plot hole, the sheer joy of losing myself in a created world. It's the way words play in my head, forming rhythms and images, demanding to be set free. It's a constant, internal story factory running all day, every day, and occasionally spitting out a finished product.
And yet, here's the even more intriguing part of my little personal paradox: if anyone – a new acquaintance, a distant relative at a family gathering, a confused delivery driver – asks me what I do, my go-to response is invariably, "Oh, I work as Night Security." My actual, bill-paying, fluorescent-lit job. It's as if I'm hiding. Or worse, denying my own true endeavours. Why?
Part of it, I think, is the fear of judgment. The moment you declare "I'm a writer," you open yourself up to a volley of questions: "Oh, what have you written?" "Are you published?" "Where can I read your work?" And with each hopeful query, my internal critic cringes, whispering, "You're a fraud. You've got nothing to show for it." Saying "Night Security" is safe. It's tangible. Everyone understands it. No follow-up questions are required, nothing that might expose my secret, unvalidated passion.
Perhaps it's also a form of protection. By keeping my deepest ambition somewhat under wraps, I shield it from the harsh glare of public expectation. It's my thing, sacred and unblemished by rejection or public critiques. It's a dream I can nurture in the shadows, free from the pressure to perform or prove anything to anyone but myself.
But the more I ponder it, the more I realise how silly, how limiting, how self-disparaging this behaviour is. When does a painter become a painter? When they pick up a brush and put paint on canvas, not when they have their first gallery show. When does a chef become a chef? When they cook, when they experiment, when they learn, not just when they open a Michelin-starred restaurant.
So why should a writer be any different? If I spend countless hours crafting sentences, building worlds, wrestling with dialogue, then by all accounts, I am performing the act of writing. And if I am performing the act of writing, consistently, passionately, even obsessively, then surely, I am a writer. It's time to stop letting external definitions dictate my internal truth. My journey might not have involved immediate fame or fortune (yet!), but it's a valid and deeply fulfilling path I’m on. The words flow, the stories build, and that for now, is enough.
So, the next time someone asks what I do, perhaps, just perhaps, I'll take a deep breath and confidently declare: "I'm a writer”. Even if I do quickly add, “but I mainly work as Night Security” It’s a start, right? And who knows, maybe one day, my actual job will simply be “A Writer.” A man can dream… especially during the quiet hours between 2 AM and 5 AM…Oh well, back to the CCTV, did I tell you that I work as Night Security?