Impostor Syndrome - The Reason it Took Me Ten Years to Make a Blog

This blog is both the start and the middle of a journey. It's the beginning in the sense that I have always been a self-deprecating soul, insecure to the core, awkward out of my element and overthinking every little word, making self-publishing a big leap. But it is also the middle in the sense that while I first "overcame" this emotional handicap with humour in high school, it's now time to make some actual progress, you know, 20 years later. And, for me, there is a lot about writing that captures the essence of my issues, so here we are.

After all these years, the only thing left to do is to analyse the patterns, identify the main manifestations, and then to squash them like a cockroach with a pointy toed cowboy boot. That's totally a Texas idiom, and Texas is the main source of any scrap of bravado I have.

So let us dig into my psyche a bit via my writing issues (though let's not dig too much, just the negative bits today). And I know in a lot of this I'm not particularly unique, so I'm sure some of it will resonate with a reader or two.

First of all, I've always been a little protective of my writing. I'm aware of how it does expose a lot about a person, provides intentional or unintentional insight into how their mind works, and also how it opens up the person to criticism from the reader. I'm comfortable with pretty much none of that.

Secondly, let's look at what is probably some of the original source of my issues: My mother of course! But she, God bless her, is a BRILLIANT writer. Her pen is like a samurai sword, it's so sharp. However, she only ever wrote for the local paper and the "Texas Catholic" due to her own internal insecurities. And guess what? Not only did I inherit a love of books and the written word from her, I inherited the confidence issues.

In addition, she's the last person I let read what I write (yes, childhood issues), even though she's still asking to read my master's thesis. Lucky for me, the madre doesn't use the internet so a blog is pretty safe. And for the record, God forbid anyone think I'm really pinning this on my mom, she's the best.

On top of my general shyness and childhood issues, there is another factor that is not unique to me. This is the fact that in my intellectual journey there was a curve, and in this curve I reached a point where increasing knowledge meant decreasing confidence. In short, the more I knew, the less I thought I knew, it's an inverse from the Dunning-Kruger effect. First year of grad school I couldn't wait to get a PhD, second year I was already thinking "but who am I that someone should listen to me?" My growing confidence suddenly took a hit, and my life devolved from there.

I only became more terrified of people reading what I wrote. I turned in a seminar paper on Islamic Finance three days late because I felt it wasn't perfect. In the end I added a few commas, maybe changed a word or two and submitted it, having made no substantial alterations to the draft that was ready on the due date. The feedback? "Great paper, A-, would have been an A if it was received on time."

My actual thesis I kept from my supervisors until the last minute. They read it, and even praised it and signed off on it, but they were not thrilled with being kept in the dark until the day before it was due. Not at all. And so, coupled with the issue of already insane student loans, I didn't go further; self-defeated, afraid that if I kept going someone would realise the truth - that I'm an impostor.

I know deep in my soul that while I will never know everything, there is still some value that I know a lot about certain things. And I'm old and wise enough now to see that there are a lot of impostors out there. A lot of people publishing absolute nonsense; self-proclaimed historians, half of the "experts" on CNN, professors using as many academic buzz words as possible, people pitching a company with no actual working product to investors...the list goes on and on.

And here I am listening to that stupid little voice in my head? Who gives a hoot about what I write, I ask myself. And then I ask myself, why should I give a hoot if anyone gives a hoot? And what if they do give a hoot and they don't like it? Will I give a hoot or not? And so we begin the new leg of our journey; I am going to hit publish without reading this 1,000 times first, and I'll leave the hooting to the owls.