Had a terrible ‘dream’ last night about my writing. It was quite disturbing, all told and frighteningly realistic.
I’d applied to go on a writers’ retreat hosted by a university not far away from me. The retreat was, essentially, an excuse to get away from things currently annoying my nipples off IRL, and hopefully gain feedback from one of the ‘big brain’ folks who were the head of the retreat.
So, we all turned up at this leafy red-brick place, situated a stone’s throw from town, surrounded by pleasant green fields. We’re welcomed, given orientation, food hall passes (meals are included in the residential stay) and our room keys, with people to show us to the accomodation, etc.
A welcome pack was provided with phone numbers, both internal and external, lists of local entertainment if we wanted to go off-campus, bus times and stops, maps of the place, everything. All good so far. We spend the rest of the day mingling and getting a tour of the place to give us the history.
The second day is when it all goes to hell.
The first session of the day, and we’re broken up into groups for tutor-led workshops. Mine is outside, the sun is shining, birds are tweeting. In charge, it’s the main man himself, reading portfolio samples we were asked to send in beforehand so they could get a taste of our writing chops.
‘Hmm, I’m not sure you’ve grasped the even the basic elements of the craft,’ he informs me, frowning. ‘I’ve never really read anything like this, from someone who’s attending the Retreat.’
He peers up from the ‘soiled rag’ he’s holding to canvas the clutch of wannabes, before alighting on me.
‘I mean, it’s just terrible. You have no structure, your dialogue is sloppy and incoherent, this is just…well, drivel, really.’
I’m speechless. My guts are frozen solid for a good long three minutes, during which time he moves on to some other person, whom he cherishes for their darling insight, and charming scenes. Usually, I’d have exploded by now, offered some quip or scathing sarcasm, but no – all that remains is emptiness.
I woke up after that, and it took me ten minutes to realise it wasn’t real, albeit one very visceral experience. My whole body was alive with tingles from induced adrenaline dump.
That kind of thing shakes you, especially if you’re worth your salt and think you’re a fraud anyway. Only an over-inflated ego would be immune to such a dressing down. Imposter Syndrome is the balance we need to keep us in a healthy spot, always striving against complacency in our work, but it is also our achilles heel, when, in the dark depths of Morpheus’ grip, the doubts conspire to prise open the armour’s chink.
Such are the demons which haunt our dreams.
To prove the lie of course, I got up, kracked my knuckles and wrote a scene which I enjoyed writing and re-reading. Up yours Misery Prof: The Show Must Go On.
Mightier Is The Pen 