Some of my writerly musings
on Imposter Syndrome
When I was 18 I walked into the unemployment office to apply for whichever jobs had listed themselves as hiring, because that’s how it was done in 1999. I had my résumé printed out from the library and my best dress-casual attire on…
I had done this before.
Short-story even shorter: I got a job as a photographer.
I became a paid photographer for a company that hosted portrait studios inside a major box store - except I took the photos for the stores without the permanent studios. I traveled from store to store - tiny city to tiny city - and took pictures with a big fancy camera for a few days. Then I put everything back into the trunk (and backseat, and passenger seat) of my Mercury Sable and drove home until the next week when I’d do it all over again.
If the location was very far, I’d get a hotel. If it wasn’t, I’d commute. That was the job.
But I never called myself a professional photographer.
It didn’t matter that I took photographs for my job or that I got paid for it. It didn’t matter that I took photos all the time anyway, before and after that job. Or that my guy and I would go on photography dates just for fun. I like taking photos…and I’m maybe even a little good at it, but not a professional, right?
It didn’t matter that I had a camera in my hand since the day I could afford to develop my own film and it didn’t matter that I took photos at every gathering, event, and holiday - even intentional sessions set up for family - since forever…
Nope. Didn’t matter.
I wasn’t a professional.
That took something I didn’t have.
In 7th-grade Shop class we had spiral bound notebooks to take notes in. Specifically notes on the tools used in Shop class. One tool per page - and we were instructed to draw the tool, too. A screwdriver, a hammer, a lathe...
I remember as a pre-teen wondering, why are we drawing the tools? Isn’t Art next quarter? But I also remember seeing my hammer and thinking, that looks like an actual hammer.
But I couldn’t draw.
You’ve heard people say that or you’ve said it yourself, I bet. I can’t draw. As if drawing is something you must be ‘able’ to do and not something you learn to do. Am I off topic?
When I was in my mid 30s, I went through and overcame a severe bout of depression, and part of that involved art. Was it the depression or the healing that brought me to art, I couldn’t say - but I started sketching and then drawing and then painting - all fairly late in life. Or so it felt at 35.
I even had an art table set up with a friend at a moderately large vendor event once - and I sold several paintings for actual money. My art sat inside a popular New Age shop where others could purchase it, too.
But I wasn’t an artist. Or a painter. I can’t draw.
All of this to say, that I am a writer. I always have been.
When I was in elementary school and didn’t know the difference between plot and premise -I had that one teacher see my natural talent and speak encouragement aloud to me. And I had other teachers, too, who stoked the fire, so to say. And family, peers, friends…you get my point.
It got me thinking…
Can Imposter Syndrome exist only in the moments encouragement doesn't?
What if those around me had given me a monetary tip for my photography sessions or called me their photographer friend (before phones were cameras)?
What if that 7th-grade Shop teacher had complimented my hammer art that day?
— always a writer.
Not always published. Not always read. Not always good. Not always consistent. Not always writing…
But always a writer.
What do you think?
As always, thanks for reading this far. My next post is exciting and should hit your inbox (let’s see how today goes, ha!) Saturday.
Saturday, September 7, 2024 I’ll be traveling to Tennessee to help coordinate and participate in Weston’s Ride, a benefit for my daughter, son-in-love, and their family, following the sudden death of my 3-year-old grandson Weston Reed Stolte.
If you’d like to attend, we’d love to have you!
Here’s a link for their GoFundMe also.
