Asking yourself "am I good enough?" is the wrong question
In a recent talk, I shared what I've learned about imposter syndrome. The message bears repeating.
I spent the beginning of the year prepping for and running an online writing retreat for BIPOC folx. It was exactly what I needed. Yes, it was hard work leading up to it. The work was extensive (months of preparation), and had so many pieces that required an incredible attention to detail. I’ve done this work before but I was rusty. (I imagine Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz when he gets squeaky, and needs some oil to lubricate and unlock his joints.)
I’ve been doing a lot of unlocking of joints (aka skills) that weren’t only rusty, but that I’d forgotten I had. I’ve been so secluded, because of the pandemic and because I live in the woods now. 2022 was a year of grief induced isolation after the devastating loss of my nephew, my brother’s only child, Justin Andrew, in December of 2021…
I haven’t been around this amount of writers in years, and I’d forgotten how much I love to do this community work, how much I love writers, all of our beauty and neuroses, how good I am at holding these kinds of spaces, people’s needs and wants, with gentleness and care. I also forgot how much energy this work gives me.
My days were long, with multiple events each day that I had to host. I made sure to take care of myself, getting out of the house every day to move my body and get into nature. During one of my drives, after a hard day and a situation that I won’t get into here but I’ll be turning around in my head and heart for a while, I took a ride through one of my favorite routes, a nature reserve with numerous hiking trails and picturesque views, and saw a bald eagle for the second time in a matter of weeks. Spirit knew I needed this reminder and push.
Of course I pulled over, got out of the car, and talked to the eagle, who looked down at me more than once.
“Both Bald and Golden Eagles (and their feathers) are highly revered and considered sacred within American Indian traditions, culture and religion. They are honored with great care and shown the deepest respect. They represent honesty, truth, majesty, strength, courage, wisdom, power and freedom. As they roam the sky, they are believed to have a special connection to God.” (source)
I learned when I was a child that nature could console me. I first learned this in the garden oasis my mother created in our backyard, in the plum tree towards the back of the yard, and in the trash strewn lot next door to us, where every spring and summer, nature showed me the beauty it could make out of ugliness. I was amazed at how bushes and vegetation grew tall, through and over the mounds of trash, so for a few weeks every year, that lot looked like a jungle to my young eyes. I’m grateful to have been able to recapture that perspective as an adult, my eyes always open to the magic of nature and it’s mind-boggling abilities…and its messages.
It was there in that backyard that I also began my fascination with birds. I don’t remember seeing it at a kid, but I started imitating the song of a bird I heard often in the yard, by scrunching my lips and sucking air between the gap in my front teeth. I can’t quite do it as well as I used to because my teeth have shifted since and my gap isn’t as wide as it used to be, but it wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned the bird I was imitating was a male red cardinal.
There are many myths and legends about cardinals, and their meaning varies by culture. What I know is that those birds introduced me to something I’ve carried since. So when I saw that bald eagle, I knew all was right in the world.
Yesterday was the last day of the retreat, and I had to give closing remarks as the retreat manager. I’m sharing a version of the speech here because the message bears repeating. I’ve removed names to protect people’s privacy.
It can be frightening when you pursue your dreams and they start to come true. Getting that essay published, that poem, that short story, getting into this retreat, where you’ve had the enviable opportunity to work for an entire week with master writers.
Of course there’s been joy. So much joy. But…for those of us who still wrestle with imposter syndrome, the weight follows us wherever we go. And, yes, I use “us” purposely, because I too struggle with imposter syndrome. And we are not alone.
The literary legend Maya Angelou once spoke about the feelings of self-doubt she experienced each time she published a book.
“Each time I write a book, every time I face that yellow pad, the challenge is so great. I have written eleven books, but each time I think, ‘Uh oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody and they’re going to find me out.”
See, imposter syndrome has nothing to do with actual achievements or credentials. You heard me in the back? Oyeron? I’ll repeat it for good measure: imposter syndrome has nothing to do with actual achievements or credentials.
We’re all trying to get somewhere, we want to write well, we want to be published, we want to make our children proud, our parents, our friends, our ancestors. We want to make ourselves proud. The journey is arduous, it’s often lonely, and it also can be costly, and I’m not just talking about money here. We have to sacrifice so much to live this writing life we’ve dreamt of. It’s much simpler to be “ok” at your craft. There’s little risk associated with being mediocre, and some say you can do fairly well with minimal effort. But we’re not those kinds of people. I know that about every single one of you because you’re here, you just spent a week workshopping your stories and poems; attending craft talks and panels; doing writing assignments and prompts; never mind the work you’ve done to get here–the years of reading and writing and reading and writing and writing and writing and writing and writing.
I want you to ask yourself these questions: Am I afraid of failure? Am I afraid of success?
I don’t think I am anymore, or at least not as bad as I used to. What keeps me up at night, is the idea of not taking advantage of opportunities presented to me. I grew up in Bushwick, Brooklyn when it was a pile of rubble. Bushwick before the organic markets, yoga studios and Cafes where they charge $6 for a cup of fuckin coffee that’s not even good. Before there was a garbage can on every corner.
Between 1965 and 1980, there were over a million fires in NYC, they call them the Fire Wars. The South Bronx is most infamous for the aftermath of that, but Bushwick was just as devastated. Abandoned, burnt out buildings with fire-licked fronts dotted the neighborhood. During the crack era, those buildings became crack houses. There was one of those buildings right across the street from where I grew up. There were lots full of trash and rubble for blocks. There was one of those lots right next door, piled high with old tires, license plates with sharp, curled edges, lumber with rusted nails jutting out, an occasional needle, cables, wires, rats, feral cats, rubble. I was the kid who climbed into that to play and imagine. I can close my eyes and bring myself back there when I was four and five and six years old with scraped knees and a dirt-smudged face. At the height of the summer, the foliage grew so thick in that lot that if you looked at the right angle, you could almost forget where you were. Imagine the imagining I did there.
This is where I became a writer, where I grew up, what I will always consider home, no matter where I am. This is the Bushwick I return to in my stories.
I grew up around people whose only mistake was that their lack of resources meant they couldn’t realize certain dreams, and not for lack of trying. And it wasn’t for lack of using their “bootstraps” either, because they didn’t have boots to begin with. I have resources my people, my ancestors didn’t have. I am the fruition of their wildest dreams, and my loves, you are the fruition of your ancestor’s wildest dreams.
So what to do with that. That’s a lot of pressure, I get it. And that is often where and why imposter syndrome comes in. You doubt your skills, you doubt your talents, your accomplishments.
Who the fuck do I think I am? I don’t belong here. I am an ant among giants. They’ll find me out soon enough. You just watch.
Sound familiar?
It’s come up in our Slack more than once. I shared with you that I had imposter syndrome when the Executive Director asked me back in July to take on the role of Retreat Manager. I’ve done this work before, more than once, for larger organizations, which is why they chose me. That didn’t matter. As the retreat approached, I felt the anxiety well in my stomach. It made me queasy, made me lose sleep, made me chew on that bump in my lower lip that I call my anxiety bump. It didn’t stop during the retreat and even now, as we close down, I have a long list in my head of things I could have done better, of what I failed at.
I’ve been found out…
I feel imposter syndrome about this memoir I’ve been working on for like 15 years now. Despite being published all over the place. Despite the praise and love I get for my essays and memoir excerpts. My first instinct when I get that love is to flee.
When will they discover what a fraud I am? When will they realize that I don’t have the skills, the talent in me to do this work?
I think of something my mentor Chris Abani told me back in 2010: “Talent doesn’t make a writer, Vanessa. What makes a writer is staying power.” When I confessed: “What if I’m not good enough?” He responded: “You’re asking the wrong question, Vanessa. The question is ‘is the work good enough.’ If the answer is no, then you do the work until it is.” Staying power.
James Baldwin said something similar: “I know a lot of talented ruins. Beyond talent lie all the usual words: discipline, love, luck, but, most of all, endurance.”
Keynote speaker Mateo Askaripour also said something similar: When he was struggling to write his book Black Buck, he asked himself “Am I good enough?” The answer was “no, but I will be through the act of doing.”
What he’s saying is the only way out is in. The only way to manage, to deal with imposter syndrome, to kick its ass, drag it out and slam the door on it, is to hit the page. I don’t know another remedy besides that.
Community can absolutely help. They can hold you accountable and encourage you. They can put a mirror in front of you and hold you while you stare. You’ve done that for one another this week.
I’ve set a goal of seeing myself the way my daughter does: that glint in her eye when she tells her friends “my mom’s a writer.” When I featured at the famed Nuyorican Poets Cafe back in September, she came and brought two friends. She told me: “I want them to see who you are, not just as my mom, but you on the stage, doing your thing, ma.” On her way back to her dorm (she’s in her first year at Hunter College in NYC, on a full merit scholarship, I might add), she texted me: “I’m so proud to be your daughter.”
Those words carry me. That glint in her eye carries me… But when it comes down to it, when I sit down to write, it’s just me and that blank page.
It’s like that for you too. When it comes time to do the work, to confront that blank page, to fill it with words, it’s you and that page. Period.
But here’s the thing you should know, remember, and find comfort in, as Joanna Volpe, agent & president of New Leaf Literary, said on the agents panel: “you are already doing the next level work by being here” at this retreat. Continue to do that work. Continue to challenge yourself. Continue to support one another. Continue to read and admire and emulate other writers who are doing the work you long to do, writing the stories & poems you want to write. Don’t give up.
And surround yourself with people who remind you that you deserve to be in spaces like this. Keep surrounding yourself with people who uplift you and remind you that you are the shit, your stories and poems are glorious, you are glorious and you are worthy of all the praise & love & affirmation. Folx who will tell you as many times as needs to be said: You belong here, just like everyone who is here. Whether you’ve been published or not. Whether this is your first writing retreat or your fifth. Whether you’ve worked alongside and with writers of this caliber before or not, because again, imposter syndrome has absolutely nothing to do with actual achievements or credentials.
You belong here. Your earned your seat. You got in on the strength of your application, the strength of your writing sample. Period.
If you need a reminder, I gotchu…
I proceeded to name every single one of the 46 writers who attended the retreat, one by one, telling them after I said their name: “you deserve to be here.”
(I felt like Oprah yelling and pointing at her audience: you get a car and you get a car and you get a car.)
I joke but I was really deliberate in my intention. I wanted them to know just how much I believe in them, that they indeed, every single one of them, deserve to be there.
We are the present and the future of the literary landscape. It’s our time. Let’s get it.
I set the intention to make this year about community, being around community, sharing love and stories and solidarity with community. Leading this retreat was an incredible way to begin the year. I feel full in that delicious way you do when you know you’ve done something amazing. I’m also exhausted in that delicious, accomplished way that actually energizes you to want to do more.
Starting the year this way bodes well. I am ready! And we’re only two weeks in. Let’s get it!
I love you,
Vanessa
Thank you, Vanessa. I needed to hear this: “The question is ‘is the work good enough.’ If the answer is no, then you do the work until it is.”
I have just started my writing journey at the beginning of this year after many decades of “wanting to be a writer.” And even though I’ve spent the past four years as a mindset coach for others who are finding the courage to pursue their dreams, I still struggle with all the parts of me that want to run away, because writing is hard and what if I suck?
Your mentor nailed the importance of a growth mindset: even if some of my work sucks right now, if I keep doing it, I will get better. I just need to choose to listen harder to the voices that tell me I can do it versus the ones that say I can’t.
Your workshop participants are very lucky to have gleaned this wisdom from you!
Sounds amazing :)