I turned forty-one yesterday. Somehow, it feels like I only just turned forty but also have been forty for ages. Time is strange like that. It’s easy to let the days, the months, the years run together. How is my baby turning sixteen next month? How is Frozen already a decade old?
I am so beyond grateful for all that I accomplished in my 40th year. I prioritized my health (world’s okay-est runner), tried a new hobby (sourdough bread baking), and recommitted to an old one (square foot gardening). But the absolute highlight of my 40th year was my agent selling my book. Some days, it still doesn’t seem real. People all over the world are going to read the words I wrote, fall in love with the characters I created.
I hope.
Because somedays, it doesn’t seem real, but other days, that nagging writer’s companion—imposter syndrome—catches me by surprise.
I like to take time away from my work between drafts. I haven’t read my manuscript since I went on submission in November, haven’t laid eyes on it for four months as I wait to begin edits.
Until two days ago.
I hadn’t meant to read it, only skip to a section and grab a quote for a post. But I started reading, and my stomach sank.
Was the wording cringey?
Is that too repetitive?
Did I really write that?
How did anyone like this?
Why would anyone want to read this?
I know it’s imposter syndrome. I know creatives face this all the time. It’s part of creating art, part of pursuing a career where no one metric can assign value, where there is nothing to point to and say, yes, this is good enough. You are good enough. (What is good enough?)
So I stop reading. I close the document and I try to talk some confidence into myself. I recount my wins along the way, the goal posts that I keep moving.
I wrote a book. I finished writing a book.
I put my work out there. I handed out my heart.
I got an agent.
We sold a book. We sold a book to a major publisher. We sold a book in multiple translations.
How much validation, you wonder, does one writer need?
Is it possible, I wonder, for all of these people to be wrong?
I have never been particularly good at celebrating my own wins. I hated looking braggy, of feeling like all eyes were on me. I prefer backstage and behind the scenes. My author bio was probably the most awkward things I’ve ever had to write. I have finally stopped blushing when I tell people I’m an author.
I’d like to get better at recognizing my successes along the way. I want to count my progress, not just acknowledge the goal post reached as I pass it on the way to the next one. I want to take a moment to see how far I have come before I look ahead to where I am going. People say goal post, but in my mind I imagine telephone poles in an endless row. Look how far you’ve come. Look how far you can go.
I turned forty-one yesterday. I hope it is another year of progress and firsts, of new experiences in my life and my career. I hope I can look back and see how I have gotten here, look ahead and see what can challenge me and help me grow. But mostly, I hope I can look to here and now—be in the here and now—and enjoy whatever the moment brings. It won’t always be success, but it will always be mine.
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