Like many women, I am racked with impostor syndrome. To this day, when people introduce me as a “writer” I feel my jaw clench. “Writer” describes someone else. Someone who’d contemplate the trees buffeted by the wind and think something more than how “buffeted” would be a great name for an all-you-can-eat restaurant.
My friends have little patience, having endured years of me similarly bristling at “journalist”. Even though I worked as one, I felt saying so was an oversell, like calling myself an architect for stacking a house of cards. Besides, I couldn’t be a real journalist and still feel hurt and bewildered by the world I was meant to be analysing. (Spoiler: you can.)
Whenever I worked on a major story, I’d fret about making rookie mistakes. “But you’re not a rookie,” the girls would say, stroking my hair. “You haven’t been for ages.” Until they didn’t. If I tried to reduce myself, they’d groan: “This again? You’re annoying.” Once, while walking along with Clara, my sister-like friend, I remarked that an accomplishment was “down to luck”. “Really?” she said, sharply. “Because I think you’re generally an unlucky person. If I pushed you into the road right now, I’d wager you’d be the one idiot who got hit by a bus.”
It wasn’t a real threat but I stopped mentioning it, just in case. I’ve been thinking about this because after a car-crash of a day I text Clara. “Ah well, all in a day in the life of a journalist,” I said. “I’m so proud. You’ve grown!” she said. “See? Tough love works.” “Not really. I just think my impostor syndrome has moved on to more lofty occupations.” “[Enter expletives here].” But I only said it because it’s much more fun to annoy her than admit she may have a point.
