My writing is garbage. Not just my writing today; I mean all my writing. Everything I churn out –from work products to chapters in my work-in-progress to this very post — is trash. I once thought words flew through my fingertips, creating magic on the page. But as I look back, those pages would serve this world better as kindling for a dumpster fire.

Welcome to imposter syndrome. Every writer I meet, and every writer I read about online, has faced it.

And today, it’s hitting me. Hard.

Yesterday, I decided to read over the manuscript for my debut novel. This is a manuscript I worked on for about 14 years. There are pages and paragraphs I poured over for hours, days, and weeks. It’s been read by about a dozen beta readers, many of whom I have nothing but the deepest respect for. And comments from friends and strangers alike praised the manuscript (alongside valuable constructive criticism).

I even signed with an amazing publisher.

Yet as I read through my first few chapters, my eyes widened in horror. This is garbage, I thought to myself. The prose was choppy. The pacing was too slow. The dialogue was wooden. And whatever spark of joy was permeated the manuscript fizzled out in an acrid puff of smoke.

What a colossal waste of time. Might as well delete it now and save myself and everyone the embarrassment of publishing this hideous mess.

After all, folks would figure it out sooner or later. Why wait for the one-star reviews, insults on GoodReads, and derision from those who made the mistake of paying good money for this rubbish?

Anger at myself turned outwards towards those who encouraged me along this journey. What’s wrong with them? How could they say with a straight face that this is good? It’s not even mediocre. I’ve read hundreds of books, and this manuscript is by far the worst. Were those who read it just being overly kind? Were they blinded by the novelty of me finishing something I started? Then the words of Taylor Swift rattle through my head: “Lord, what will become of me // Once I’ve lost my novelty?”

This is not a fun place to be.

This is just the reality of being a writer. It’s part of the process of publishing, I guess. There are the highs — the announcement of a finished work; the day you sign with an agent/publisher. Eventually, the day a book is finally published.

But there cannot be highs without lows.

And when I step back from the brink — when I really examine my feelings and my work — I know this imposter syndrome is just my fears and insecurities temporarily gaining the upper hand. Deep down, I know my writing isn’t garbage. Hell, some of it probably rises to the level of mediocre. Within the cacophony of my 94,000-word manuscript, there may even be a good sentence. Or two.

Imposter syndrome appears without warning. And those are the worst times.

When it happens, I remind myself that this, too, shall pass. My insecurities will always be there. But they won’t always have such a dominant voice in my head.

I have to trust those around me. And I have to trust myself.

That’s hard to do sometimes. And it’s ok that it is hard.

After all, no one said publishing a book is easy. If it was, everyone would do it.