Oh, Imposter Syndrome. You are a ravenous bitch who constantly gnaws at my soul. I don’t know a writer in the history of ever who hasn’t been plagued by it at one time or another. John Steinbeck had it. Stephen King has had it. Colleen Hoover admits struggling with it. Neil Gaiman – NEIL FRIGGING GAIMAN – gets it. Why do we do this to ourselves?

When I landed my first book deal – with a big five publisher, no less – I reached out to several agents, looking for representation. My email subject line was “Debut author with two book contract offer seeks representation” (it’s crazy how agents will actually answer your emails with that as an opener).

As I was interviewing them all, I explained that I had entered a YA novel contest with Macmillan and was lucky enough to be one of the five books chosen for publication. I remember one very smart, no-nonsense agent (who I will forever kick myself for not choosing) stopped me at the word lucky.

“Hold on,” she said. “Why are you saying that word? It sounds to me like you had a story that you wrote, and rewrote and edited and polished, then submitted to a big five publisher, and an editor read it and offered you a two-book deal. Where’s the luck in that? It sounds to me like you’re a writer who worked hard for what she got.”

I had a story, and I wrote it. That made me a writer. I put the work in, persevered through rejections and being utterly ignored, and triumphed over a lot of personally challenging stuff while I did it all. And now I’m a traditionally published author. I’ve also been an independently published author. The point is, I accomplished it all because I’m a writer. I’ve been one since I wrote that first word. I shouldn’t be wasting time convincing myself of that.

And neither should you.