Tag: Fiction

Imposter Syndrome is something that’s been discussed many times by writers, and it is something that I wanted to talk about. Like so many others, I’ve been a victim of this. It’s a vicious cycle of looking at stuff I’ve done, hearing others praise it, and it all feels empty, like it isn’t really that good, or not good at all. At such times, I convinced myself that what I have done, what I’ve written, wasn’t worth the merit it’s received.

Typos have been a big source of that, more so because I began overanalyzing everything from word choice to sentence structure, even formatting. I decided I needed to change some internal formatting factors like margins and font size before Beneath the Deep Wave was published, and for the sake of consistency, to change them in Mystical Greenwood as well, resulting in a roughly 40-page deduction for both. It seems Mystical Greenwood was destined to have a checkered history, similar in some ways to films that have had decades worth of production behind them.

Another example of this feeling happened when, in recent years, I’ve seen books appearing on Amazon with people who have the same name as me, such as an academic book by an anthropologist and a short memoir by a British man discussing a traumatic childhood. At times, as a result, I’ve regretted not choosing a pen name or what I referred to as a “writer’s name,” meaning a different way to write my name.

Yet at the end of this regret and anxiety, every time I am reminded why I didn’t go that direction. My full name, Andrew Michael McDowell, is long, and there was a writer named Michael McDowell (not my dad). As for Andrew M. McDowell, well, because of the sound with which the letter M ending and beginning a name being the same, when said aloud, it’s as if they fuse and can’t be differentiated. Plus, before I became a writer, I’ve always introduced myself, and signed my name, as Andrew McDowell. And, at least, I’m currently the only Andrew McDowell in the Poets & Writers directory.

As for errors, well, I must remind myself that you can always fix them; everyone’s been printing them forever. I made the decisions I made which, at the time, were the right ones. Judging them by what is happening at present only causes anxiety, unless we can learn from them. But I cannot fault those decisions for being the right ones at the right time. At least I have let go…for now. Besides, imperfections show that I’m human, and if I look at famous movies and TV shows with goofs, continuity errors, etc., those haven’t prevented them from having the cultural impact they’ve had.

Worrying about things I’ve done is ultimately meaningless. I know I should be proud of all that I have accomplished. I am not perfect, nor do I need to be. I need to see both the trees and the forest. But still, sometimes, I worry. I’ve tried to be more positive, but I’ve not succeeded yet. I guess it means I’m learning and that I care. But I also cared enough about myself to know that I needed to let go of chasing perfection and just be happy. I still need to work on self-love. It is apparent to me that something I write someday could not be as favorably received (like Charles Dickens experienced with Martin Chuzzlewit), but I hope that won’t stop me from trying better next time. The key is to let go and move on.

I’ll be at a local author showcase sponsored by the Maryland Writers’ Association next week at Savage Mill. If you’re going to be in the area, I hope you can stop by.