The Art of Embracing Imposter Syndrome
To the writers of lies
The most recent productive crisis hit before quarantine, escorted by the obsessive thought that there was no point in sitting down at the desk in my room a million times to try to write, that was it, it was all over.
My relationship with writing had lasted much longer than any other, but it had inevitably come to an end. “It’s all right, darling, nothing lasts forever,” a little voice kept repeating inside me.
It was with this feeling that, one November evening, I told my sister that I was going to stop trying to write, it had become a past. I thought of a farewell text in respect for all my meager and faithful readers, who had followed all the phases of my confused, anxious and sloppy writing and, even so, had given me the chance to be heard, to feel needed and useful at times when I was anything but.
But the text never left my mind and I kept pushing it away, pretending that I’d forgotten, that I didn’t have time, that it was enough just to leave without saying goodbye, because I know that I hate saying goodbye; and that’s one of my biggest faults.
So, almost a month after it happened, I sneaked into bed in my room and did what I do best: contradict myself. And I ended up writing about a strange relationship with a stubborn and strange man, whose interest in me was proportional to the humidity I encountered when traveling to São Paulo. I wrote in one go, without stopping, as I usually do, in my haste to get rid of it. Then I read what I had written just once and found it mediocre. Perfect!
In movie scenes when there is a demolition or an earthquake, the actor who enters the set watches the destruction in dismay, finds a personal object that hasn’t been damaged by the ruin. He painfully glimpses the rest of reality that no longer exists, looks at the artefact from another life and recognizes it as something of real value.
Among the wreckage of my failures, something is always revealed that has remained intact. In my drama scene, among the rubble of my building, an old, cracked, surviving lamp keeps a small flame miraculously burning. I look at it as the most precious thing in the world and finally light a cigarette.
Tamandaré, Recife, Brazil — 2020 — Carnival Tuesday.
-Can I tell you something?
-Yes.
-Don’t take it personally.
-What?
-That last text of yours was the weakest I’ve read. It wasn’t good.
-The last thing I think about when I write is that “it’s good”, most of the time I just want something to come out. But, look, you’re right, I look weak, tired, and I am. Tired of waiting, tired of loving things that don’t seem to love me, man! I’m tired of all this shit from people who say they love me.
-I told you I wasn’t taking it personally.
-And how could I not take it personally?
-There isn’t, but I had to say it. I think you’ve written better things.
-Maybe that’s my cue. Maybe I’ll stop writing and get a real job, one that makes me involuntarily watch things grow old. And maybe one day, when I have a son, he’ll find something in a drawer in my house that will remind me that I once really wanted to be something.
-Writer?
-Beloved.
I admit, I never know what to write about. Whenever I feel an agony in my chest, a restlessness in my butt, or whatever in my feet, I don’t know what the hell to write about.
Then I stop and think, what was it like before? How did I start writing? What was my excuse?
In my texts, it’s been silence, the corridors of my parents’ house, insomnia, the anguish of an illness, a name that I thought could have been mine.
But, honestly? I have no idea. What I can say is that everything I write always ends up in love.
I admit, I have no idea what I want to say or what there is before I say it. I know I seem confused, I know I don’t make any sense, and I don’t even know why I’m looking for meaning in the first place. I know I don’t understand myself and I don’t expect you to.
But maybe you don’t understand yourself either and maybe, somehow, we can understand each other? Understand?
I don’t know, I’ve been saying a lot of “I don’t know” to everything that forces me to be a little more thinking when what I want is not to think. But maybe I’ve finally started to decipher the great mystery, or maybe it’s all just crazy fucking talk!
Maybe I just don’t have anything to write about. What I can say is that everything I write always ends up in love, but how do I start?
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