When I started down this path of sharing my writing, I did it with the “fake it till you make it” idea in mind.
Outside of a few random pieces in high school and university, I’d never been published professionally before. But I wanted people to know I was serious about what I was doing. Yet, my confidence was low. Showing that vulnerability wouldn’t be faking it, would it?
So I kept my head high and pushed through the anxiety that came with every post. Eventually, as I worked on my novels, my number of followers was growing and that anxiety eased. After a time, it stopped. Several published (albeit free) e-books later, I feel I can safely say that I’m a writer now.
However, my confidence level hasn’t really changed much. Sure, I can see when people are just starting out, or if English isn’t their first language, but that doesn’t mean they can’t grow and learn. I did. Hell, I’m still learning.
When people do approach me, they ask for advice or help because they see me as an authority figure. Or that I’m famous. A household name. But I’m no Stephen King. Even he, a repeating member of the #1 New York Times Bestseller club, says he’s the “literary equivalent of a cheeseburger and fries.”
If that’s true, I’m the moldy cheese underneath a toddler’s carseat in a minivan. And I’m being honest.
I don’t think I’m better than anyone else, and I certainly don’t put myself in the category of being pretentious. I never have. Art is subjective and not everyone is going to love a writer’s work. The same goes for Stephen King. Or J.K. Rowling. I see no reason why I should think I’ve hit some arbitrary milestone that makes me better than anyone else.
Until next time,