Genevieve Delorenzo

“I’ve got it!”

I often let my mind succumb to boredom. In fact, I encourage it. I attempt to rid my mind of any distractions—of that unwavering little voice—so that an idea may present itself uninterrupted. I log off from the online world when the digital noise becomes too much (who needs to know what I’m up to anyways?). I clean my studio in silence, staring up at my chalky white walls in the hope that the universe or God or whatever foreign entity my mind is connected to will reward me with some gem of an idea. 

“Dear God, please let me come up with something good.” 

You could call this meditation. I call it “prep work” or even research. I attempt to tap into my inner child. Are you there little G? I’ll reward you if you give me an idea. 

When this first stage of work is completed—when I’ve finally managed to rid my mind of its habitual brouhaha—if I’m lucky, I’ll think of something. 

“Eureka, whoopee, huzza, I’ve got an idea!”

I quickly shuffle around for a piece of paper and a pen or—more realistically—some digital device. I scribble down or type out whatever idea has inexplicably popped into my head (thank you Cosmos? God? Little G?). 

I bask in a false sense of accomplishment for a minute or two (“Look at me, I’ve come up with something great, I’m going to be a writer“) before putting away the piece of paper or closing the Notes App. 

And then what? What do I do now? Should I get to work, flesh out my idea? Do I leave it be, let it sit for a day or two without interfering? When should I go back to it—a few weeks, a few months? How do the professionals go about this? Is there some kind of manual I’m missing? 

How did the legends—Twain and Orwell and Camus—ever get any writing done?

And so my one minute of gloating, my few seconds of imagined literary grandeur have passed, giving way to the unavoidable session of self-abasement. Wow, how the hell could I think this was any good? 

I reread the note, the outline, the summary of a story plot, the article, the manuscript. My mind—which had been a friend to me only a few moments ago—has turned to foe. A young female character coming to terms with her childhood trauma, how original. Another story about a man realizing he’s just a cog in the capitalist machine, seriously? A blog about politics, what is this the 2010s? 

“I’m terrible, aren’t I?” I think to myself. Is being terrible just part of the process? Is accepting that you’re terrible part of the process too? 

Do I submit to this little voice—although it’s bellowing now—and just resign to a life of avoiding rejection? 

The imposter syndrome mostly treads lightly, just the occasional drizzle of demurs. Other times, though, it comes down in droves, drenching me entirely in my own sense of inadequacy. Maybe I really should just quit while I’m ahead. 

But then my mind (or that foreign entity that I still don’t quite understand) visualizes an older, wiser version of myself who reminds me that Twain and Camus and all the rest started where I am. That the goal is not to create with the intention of impressing— getting published, being listed as a “promising debut novelist”, receiving critical acclaim or even winning the Nobel Prize—but simply to create. To reveal to myself, through whatever form I may choose, how I perceive the world and how I might—with my small, insignificant existence—improve it ever so slightly. 

To spend my life doing the only thing that has ever enchanted it, given it body and form and meaning, filled it with immeasurable joy. The only thing that has saved me from the rigor and mundaneness and self-proclaimed professionalism of adults who tell kids to get their heads out of fiction novels and into Principles of Accounting books. 

And so I’ll choose to endure another round of imposter syndrome— the erratic, tormented battles within myself—if it means I can escape the adult world for another day, letting my inner child—my little G—see the light of day through the stories I create.