Poornima Manco

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Imposter syndrome

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Lately there’s been a lot of  “Who, me?” going on in my mind. It has not even been an entire month since I published my book, and the response has been very positive. Much more so than I expected. Particularly as this book was only a proverbial dipping of my toe into publishing waters.

Consequently I have had people asking for the book to be autographed, been called an ‘author’ on a public platform, been asked to hold a book signing event, to donate copies of my books for a charitable cause, to attend a book club meeting to speak about my book, and also an invitation to enter it into an International Book awards competition.

Who, me?????

Now, don’t get me wrong; I have semi-enjoyed all the attention. Secretly, however, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I am not deserving of it. After all, this slim volume of six short stories is no ‘War and Peace’. Nor is it Shakespeare. A lot of these stories are from very early on in my writing journey, and I know that I have come a fair way since then.

Therefore, I have to wonder if this is some kind of a Tsunami of goodwill that I am witnessing. Colleagues, friends and acquaintances that like me and therefore like my book?

Indie publishing is not an easy task to undertake. It is terribly labour intensive, and for a perfectionist like myself, it means many many sleepless nights. The worst part however, is the marketing side of things. Writers are by nature fairly reclusive people. Even though my friends can vouch for my gregarious and sociable side, they very rarely see the side that just wants to hole up and read or write. So, to actively go out there and promote and advertise my work, has been a very distasteful task.

When the fruits of that labour have started to come in, why am I so meh about it?

I can only put my apathetic response down to the Imposter Syndrome. Defined as a concept describing individuals who are marked by an inability to internalise their accomplishments, and a persistent fear of being exposed as a ‘fraud’.

Yes, me.

The stories are good. I know that. I also know that they are not brilliant. I am not there yet. Hence, all this attention seems overblown and undeserving. That’s the predominant thought in my mind.

On the flip side, I know that this momentum can’t and won’t last. So, why not enjoy it while it does? What’s holding me back?

I dedicated this book to my mother who was my biggest critic and my staunchest advocate while she lived. I often wonder what she would have said, and invariably, this is what I come up with:

Bouquets and Brickbats are par for the course. If you love something, keep on doing it. Give it your best, have no regrets and keep on moving forward, not looking back.

Thank you mummy. That’s exactly what I will do.

 

 

The Reunion

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It was a pretty mammoth one, considering the build up and the organisation had been three years in the making. Out of a batch of a 160, give or take a few, 70 odd made it from various parts of India and the world, to celebrate their alma mater. Twenty five years, a quarter of a century, is a fair bit of time to grow far far away from the trunk of the tree, but the roots have an umbilical pull, a clarion call that rung out into the far corners of the world, pulling us back to what had once been a central part of our universe: our school.

Just before leaving for this Alumni meeting that I was so excited to be going to, I ran into an American lady at my local salon. We got chatting and I mentioned that I would be meeting friends I hadn’t seen in twenty five years. She said something that stayed with me long after. At her 10th year, High School reunion she said, people were puffed up with a sense of their own importance. They were there to show how much they had accomplished. How many degrees they had, how far they had climbed up the corporate ladder. In contrast, she said, at the 25th, people were far more relaxed. They had nothing to prove anymore. Consequently, it made for a better atmosphere.

I had been in touch with at least 30 of my batch mates on this modern marvel of technology, an application called Whatsapp. We had joked together, planned together, ribbed one another, and the curiosity and the excitement had reached a deafening crescendo, one that I was willing to bet, would peter into a whimper. How wrong I was! Four days in the company of this riotous crowd far exceeded any expectations our collective visions could have conjured.

There were no egos. People came from all walks of life. There were those who had done tremendously well for themselves, while there were others who had settled into cosy domesticity, or more mundane careers. There was no one upmanship. Each one was glad for the other. Rejoicing in one another’s successes, and providing a listening ear to the sorrows. As we gathered together, this motley crowd in our forties, stranger themes emerged.

Old infatuations were revealed. Young men who had yearned, but never had the nerve to reveal it to the objects of their affection, declared now with great gusto, how much in love they had been. The recipients of all this ardour were at first abashed, and then revelled in this late great show of gumption. Curiouser still were the sparks that flew between random batch mates. Late bloomers who had peaked in their attractiveness were naturally most sought after. It was, for the most part, an innocent rekindling of long forgotten embers.

Ex flames met up, and exchanged niceties, all rancour forgotten. Too much water under those bridges. Then there were the mostly seen, never heard, so called nerds of the batch. All grown up now. Their personalities honed into a distinct attractiveness, rough hewn by life, their fierce intelligence giving them an edge over their jock contemporaries.

There was a getaway after the main event. Another occasion to bond over food, laughter, music, provided by a home grown, phenomenally talented singer in our batch, alcohol (the names and varieties that I shall omit), dancing and general tomfoolery. Four days culminating in a night long orgy of revelry.

At the end of those four days, the only regret we had was that it wasn’t longer.

Why was it so special? Was it because, never before nor ever again, would we be able to recreate this magic? Or because, each one of us could feel the last of our youth slipping away? And this was our way, our tiny little attempt, to hold on to the vestiges of that incredible time, our childhood, with mates whom we had shared our (mostly) ignominious past with.

There is talk of another get together in a few years time. Another attempt to gather together this crazy (and I say this with a lot of affection) crowd of nut cases, and head off for the hills, or a beach somewhere. Will it come to pass? On this grand a scale? I doubt it very much. But who is to know for sure? After all I was proven wrong this time. I hope I am again.

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