There are knots in my stomach. Big, fat knots tied with rough, fraying ropes that keep getting pulled tighter. I’ve thought about throwing up a couple of times today.

Why?

Let’s back up.

About two weeks ago, I quit my job. It’s an amicable split, and I gave a lot of lead time. After all, most of our department is new and since I love the mission of our school, I’m not really interested in leaving anyone in the lurch.

But I’ve started applying to jobs. I’ve applied to six jobs, actually, and now I have four interviews scheduled next week.

That same week that I quit my job, I received two full manuscript submissions from literary agents.

Objectively speaking, these are all good things. The response rate for job applications, the interest in a novel I poured my heart into — those things happened because I’ve got a great resume, good references, and I’m a solid writer.

“Or it could mean,” says a little voice in the back of my head that no one asked to weigh in, “that you’re about to get rejected six times over.”

“Hey, no one asked you,” I tell the little voice. “I have a great resume. I’m a strong writer and storyteller. Ask literally anyone that I’ve ever worked for.”

“Ending a sentence with a preposition, huh?” The little voice laughs, a menacing, evil little escape of air. “You might be able to write a good pitch. But as soon as they see you, the real you? You’re toast.”

This, my friends, is a conversation I have on the regular with my little not-so-friendly imposter syndrome. Have you heard of it? It sounds fake, doesn’t it? Well, it’s not. According to Wikipedia and the many sources that Wikipedia cites, imposter syndrome is…

a psychological pattern in which an individual doubts their skills, talents or accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a “fraud”. Despite external evidence of their competence, those experiencing this phenomenon remain convinced that they are frauds, and do not deserve all they have achieved. Individuals with impostorism incorrectly attribute their success to luck, or interpret it as a result of deceiving others into thinking they are more intelligent than they perceive themselves to be.

That’s about the long and the short of it.

I’ve met so many people with imposter syndrome that I would be willing to bet that everyone has experienced it at some point or another. Well, maybe not everyone (I’m looking at you, Donnie T), but most normal people have. The new teacher wondering if they’re ready for the role. The development director who has raised millions of dollars for worthy organizations. The new hire at big tech firm, the new mom — literally everyone should know what this feels like.

But I think it’s especially true of writers.

Writing is, by nature, an act that makes you vulnerable. You have this thought that corresponds to a feeling. You want to get it out, so you write. And write, and write, and write.

Then you look at this story you’ve created. You map all of the ways that it doesn’t measure up, that it doesn’t do what you want it to do. So you edit. And edit, and edit, and edit.

And then, it’s better. So you send it to some people you trust. They tell you what they love. They tell you what they didn’t love. You edit again.

Now, you have this book. It’s a piece of yourself that exists outside of you. It’s sweat, and blood, and tears, and now — you put it out into the world.

You get rejected. You try again because you believe in your work.

It’s humbling.

We start writing because we love reading. We read books that make us laugh, cry, and fall so deeply into these made up worlds that we stay up all night inside of them. We don’t want to leave.

We’ve spent so much time in these worlds built entirely with words that try to build our own.

It rarely goes well on the first try. You look at your work, and the work of those books you love. It’s not there. You aren’t as good.

So when you work and work and work to get your writing to a place where you can share it, you imagine it being held up to these masters of the craft.

It’s the perfect place for imposter syndrome to grow and fester.

I don’t have a cure. I have to live with this tiny voice, maybe forever. All I can do is keep preparing for those interviews. Keep writing. Keep going, push beyond it.

I can’t let it win.

For all of you writers doubting yourself, do yourself a favor and watch this. The Gap, by Ira Glass. It helps every. single. time I’m doubting myself.