Am I Even Good at This?

When I started grad school, I didn’t realize how quickly self-doubt could take root in a room full of writers. Everyone seemed so certain of their talent, so fluent in the language of ambition. I, on the other hand, was still figuring out what I even wanted my voice to sound like. Every workshop felt like an audition for something I wasn’t sure I wanted.

There was this quiet, unspoken current of competition: who got published, who was shortlisted for something, who got invited to read. No one said it aloud, but we all felt it. The irony was that the more I compared myself to others, the less I actually wrote. I’d leave class, sit at my desk, and stare at the blinking cursor, convincing myself that everyone else’s words were stronger, cleaner, more necessary.

What made it harder was how easily admiration could twist into insecurity. I genuinely loved reading my classmates' work, but every time I did, I caught myself wondering if I’d ever write something that effortless, that sure of itself. I’d thumb through literary journals late at night, studying the bios of young writers who’d already published in all the places I dreamed of, as though their accomplishments could reveal the secret path I hadn’t found yet, or worse, that they'd confirm my sneaking suspicion that it was already too late for me to be successful. It was exhausting, trying to measure a journey that wasn’t meant to look the same for everyone.

To add to the pressure, I studied at a widely celebrated MFA program with faculty renowned around the world to be some of the finest in our field. In the second semester of my first year, I worked with Marilynne Robinson, a Pulitzer Prize winner and Barack Obama's favorite author. I became consumed with making my writing worth her time, so much so that the first story I handed in for our workshop was an emotionally stunted, over-polished thing. When Marilynne told me that my protagonist "had no soul," it stung deeply. For a long time, I believed her critique wasn’t about the work, but about me. Maybe I was missing something essential that other writers had. But looking back, I see that comment differently now. Maybe my protagonist had no soul because I had been too afraid to give him one, afraid of what would spill out if I stopped guarding every word.

I remember the moment I started to pull away, not out of rebellion, but self-preservation. I began to stop performing the version of myself I thought belonged there. Instead of racing to produce something “impressive,” I permitted myself to slow down. I started journaling again, not for a workshop, not for publication, just to remind myself what it felt like to write without consequence.

It was strange how quickly that shift changed things. When I stopped trying to sound like someone who knew everything, I started to sound like myself. The pages were still messy, still uncertain, but they were mine.

Grad school was full of people who were constantly producing new stories, new essays, new wins. I learned, eventually, that I wasn’t built that way. I need time to marinate, to let things grow quietly before they reach the page. That used to feel like failure. Now, it feels like faith, faith that the work will come when it’s ready, and so will I.

There was also something liberating in realizing that maybe I didn’t have to rush toward mastery. Maybe writing wasn’t about becoming “good” so much as becoming honest. Once I let go of the pressure to constantly produce, I began noticing things again, the way people spoke when they didn’t think anyone was listening, the small moments of contradiction that make a character real. Those details had always been there; I’d just been too focused on performance to see them.

I won’t pretend that imposter syndrome disappears. It still sneaks up, especially when I see friends publish books or win awards. But I’ve learned to separate accomplishment from worth. The work isn’t just what gets shared; it's what keeps you grounded in moments of solitude. It's creative metabolism.

The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel fully “good at this.” Maybe that’s the point. Maybe writing, and life, really, isn’t about certainty at all. It’s about staying curious long enough to see what emerges when you stop proving and start listening.

And that’s what I’m learning now: everything doesn’t have to make sense right away. Some seasons are meant for writing, others for waiting. But if you keep showing up, gently, without forcing, eventually, the pieces start to fall into place.