I arrived at my very first writers’ conference and workshop, nauseated at the thought that the whole trip might be a huge waste of money and effort. After years of struggle, I had a few good short-story publications to my name, but so far, I’d failed to achieve my biggest goal: selling a novel. I had signed with a literary agent—a major accomplishment—but she hadn’t been able to sell my book.
I had worked on a new novel over the past year, and my agent was about to send it on to editors for the first time. If that book didn’t sell… well, maybe that was my sign to give up.
I knew there was a name for how I felt: imposter syndrome. The negative chatter in my head said that I wasn’t really a writer—that my publications and my signing with an agent were mere flukes. Indicators of dumb luck, not skill, certainly nothing I had earned. So far, I’d continued to write and revise my work, but as my novel’s submission time approached, the voice of my imposter syndrome had become awfully loud.
I checked into the conference hotel and then made myself leave the shelter of my room. As I waited for the elevator, battling my self-consciousness, I reminded myself that I was there to make connections and become a better writer. That wouldn’t happen if I hid in my room. I didn’t want to squander the money I’d spent on airfare and registration, either.
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