King's Inferno and the Impostor Syndrome

Impostor Syndrome and the Modern Writer

“Impostor syndrome is real, yo.”

I’m the stubborn working professional, non-professional. That’s where my tale of the imposter syndrome starts. The first layer in the levels of hell run by…instead of Dante, our guide is Stephen King. There are a few other authors I would say were qualified to lead writers on their journey, but he is the king in more ways than one. Plus, his narration along the way just makes the ride creepier.

When I say I am a pro/non-pro, it is just what it is. I won’t budge. I’m sure my professors at Hopkins probably look at me with disdain, and possibly some mild amusement, but I have become entrenched in my own loose sensibilities when it comes to the written word. Reading this you find me at this weird intersectionality of talking about lofty psychological deep-impact problems like Imposter Syndrome using terms like “bro”, “Ladybro”, and “yo”.

Call it lazy thinking. Slothfulness with the language. I don’t care anymore. I recently said in response to a peer’s paper, “Damn bro…that was fire.” I don’t do it to fly in the face of academic authority. I’m just tired of not being myself, so I’m being myself in a world of scholars. Trust me when I say I feel like I am standing at the feet of monoliths, looking up to the clouds where they sit in their square hats replete with gold tassels, and imagine them looking down on me. Literally and figuratively.  Either they don’t notice me or they do and shake their massive domes. I shrug my shoulders and say, “Welp…I’m here. You let me in the door. I’m not changing except to improve my craft. I’m too old and too tired to fuck with how I speak. I can write like a mother fucker so enjoy me or fail me.” This is where my first bit of imposter syndrome is seated. The first layer of King’s Inferno. Self-deprecating loathing and mistrust of self.

The first layer says, “You skated into this position. Someone missed something. Now, they’ll find you out. People here don’t say ‘bro’ or ‘ladybro’…what the fuck is that even? Dipshit.” I live a lot of different lives. We all do. In my writer iteration one of my selves stays here. Listening to the demons. They fly around my head, wanging me in the skull with old Smith/Corona typewriters, making sure I know that I suck and I’m a liar. Academia, your first agent, your first publishing deal…it’s all the same for us in the first layer.

After looking around the upper layer of King’s Inferno, he takes me down to the second tier. This one is less personal and more shareable. I see many of my fellow authors here. Their bodies trapped in the ground, stomped in the dust, reaching up for help. I grab a hand and pull. No budging. I have to let go. King puts a hand on my shoulder and points at a hole in the ground.

“That shape look familiar?”

It does. It’s shaped like me.

“You belong there. You all belong down here.”

We’re in the layer called, “I am, but I’m not.”

I discover that the poor pale soul wasn’t reaching for me. She was reaching up toward the stars where the god kings/queens sit. King, Goodkind, Tolkien, Hurston, Angelou, Salvatore, Anthony, and others. Their storied visages smiling and staring off into the cosmos, enjoying and writing stories for all time. The grounded writer reaches for them, to touch their greatness. Believing, somehow, that they should have a seat up there.

King leans in and whispers,

“Get closer to the dirt, listen, hear them.”

I squat down. My old-ass knees pop angrily. Then I hear it. Quiet voices. A choir of millions. All saying the same thing.

“I have greatness…but I’ve seen the shit I write…another edit…another edit…another edit…”

I stand up. Knees pop again. Dammit.

I look at Stephen.

“We’re all always reaching, aren’t we?”

He gestures for me to follow. I do. We end up at a sewer plunge. A small paper boat is floating toward the opening in the sidewalk. King points at it. I back away.

“No…no..no! I’ve seen the movies. Ain’t no way I’m going…”

My words are cut short as he grabs me by the back of my head and shoves me down the hole into the darkness.

I fall for some time. Long enough for the screams to stop and I take a small nap. I wake up when my body slams into something semi-soft and loosely piled. I look around and I am surrounded by manuscripts. Millions of manuscripts. I pick one up and look at the title.

I Was Fucked by A Werewolf and Vampire and Zombie and Frankenstein’s Monster Shades of Grey

Jesus Christ. I’m on the slush pile in the middle of a heavy inky darkness. The light overhead is the only thing illuminating the mountain of white paper below me. My footing is uncertain. Wobbly. How perfectly ironic.

In the distance I see headlights coming toward me. The roar of a heavy engine echoes in the vast chamber. I hold up my arms. It’s going to hit me. I have nowhere to go.

At the last moment the headlights turn away and skidding to a stop, right next to me, floating in air, is Mr. King in a beautiful old red Chevy.

“Christine?” I ask.

He slaps the door on the side.

“Nope. This one’s Carla. She doesn’t kill her victims. Only makes the slightly depressed. So, you’ve found the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth levels of the inferno. It’s ever growing, that pile of lost hope you’re standing on. So many dreams, so few slots.”

He’s right. This is a pile of hopes and dreams I’m standing on that will never see their intended end. It is part of the impostor syndrome. We writers send these out hoping that our lottery ticket will get picked. It doesn’t matter that there are hundreds of thousands of books in the major stores. It doesn’t matter that the traditional linear novel is slowly going away. It doesn’t matter that at this very moment hundreds of thousands…no…millions of others are writing at this very moment. We tell people we’re actively querying because that means we’re authors. We do it knowing that…

I’ll make it.

I’ll make it…I swear I will.

The thought trails away as King swings the car around. The door opens.

“Hop in, kid. We’ve got one more to go.”

We drive for hours. The hum of the car and Mr. King quietly singing to himself lulls me to sleep. Eventually I wake up in front of my laptop. The screen blank; cursor blinking at me expectantly. My title, ‘Writer’, demands that I pour worlds out, that cursor cutting its way through the unknown jungle to the treasure that lies at the end. Except…there’s no typing. No world crafting. I just stare at the cursor burdened by doubt, guilt, and what feel like existential anchors around my wrists. I should be able to do this freely…words rushing out of me like a damn burst open, the fat belly of the rock torn open and everything flowing free. That’s what people believe I do. I believe I do. But…I’m just here. Cursor like a metronome ticking out my failure’s soundtrack.

I look down at the keyboard and a torn yellow slip of paper sits there. I read the text written on it,

“Welcome to the ninth layer – S.K.”