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The room was too warm, but that’s not why I was sweating. I was nervous. Deeply, deeply nervous. It had been a long time since I sat in a creative writing classroom, yet here I was.
It was early June 2023 and I hadn’t written fiction in years. My Imposter Syndrome had been growing for a while and was now in full bloom. I was certain this was about to go sideways.
We went around the table introducing ourselves. When my turn came: “Hi, I’m Greg Zimmerman and I actually work here at StoryStudio. I’ve been here about a year. I haven’t written fiction in a long time. I’m excited to be in this class, but also really nervous.”
What if this class went poorly? If it did, how could I look my StoryStudio co-workers, many of them accomplished writers, in the eye? What if I scribbled some drivel and the instructor reported back, “Hey, you know that guy you hired last year? He’s not it.”
If you’re a writer, you’re probably thinking “welcome to the club, pal.” This is how Imposter Syndrome makes you feel: you question everything but in the worst possible way. Doubt becomes fact. You become a conspiracy theorist who thinks everyone’s out to get you.
Of course, this was all ridiculous. The stakes for a single creative writing class weren’t remotely as high as potential unemployment. But there were stakes.
You see, since I was little, I’ve wanted to be a writer. I wrote stories as a child. I wrote sports articles for my hometown newspaper as a high schooler. I started college as a journalism major with grand designs to move to New York after graduation, write for a magazine, and work on my novel in my free time.
After college ended, armed with a Writing Intensive English degree, I started sketching stories, trying to get something to explode into a novel. But nothing did, so I got frustrated and stopped. A few years went by without writing a word.
In the meantime, a funny thing was happening instead. I was becoming a ravenous reader. While it’s true almost every writer is a reader, not every reader is a writer. I loved reading and I churned through books at a ridiculous clip. I soon convinced myself that identifying as a reader was a convenient excuse to not write.
I’ve never been able to find the exact author or sentence for attribution, but the saying goes: “Writers write because they can’t not.” I’ve always loved that quote, even as it gave me an excuse not to be writing. It was easy for me to not write. All I had to do was not do it. If it were so easy for me not to write, and read instead, didn’t that mean I wasn’t really a writer?
I realize now I probably should have examined that thought closer, but there were other reasons for not writing. I’m sure all writers are more than passingly familiar with these: fear of failure, sheet interia, laziness, and an unsupportive writing teacher in college whose criticism loomed much longer than it should have. So I didn’t write.
In 2008, several years after I graduated college, I decided I needed to try again. I’d just moved to Chicago and I felt unfulfilled writing for a technical trade magazine that didn’t leave much room for creativity. My expensive college degree was wasting away and my creative writing muscles had shriveled like that guy’s face at the end of Indiana Jones (an example of a terrible sentence I probably would’ve written in 2008 and why I desperately needed a writing class). I was lucky to find StoryStudio from a Google search, and with some encouragement from some friends, enrolled in an eight-week “beginner’s” class.
The class was truly wonderful—for two months, I felt whole again. I wrote a 4,000-word story I realized had been germinating for years. It was fulfilling having my writing workshopped in the class and hearing feedback (both positive and constructively critical). Writing felt like what I was supposed to be doing.
Then the class ended and I quickly lost momentum again. Occasionally, I’d open my story and rewrite a sentence or two, move a paragraph around, and tell myself I was well on my way to revising it for submission. That never happened.
The next year, after some further soul-searching, I decided to try something different. I started a book review blog and began writing twice a week about books I was reading. I learned some lessons about needing thick skin when you write on the internet and made some good online fellow book-nerd friends who also became IRL friends. These connections also led to an opportunity to contribute to a start-up called Book Riot. This was fun, this felt a little more like what I should be doing. This was writing. I was writing again.
But a voice in my head nagged “fiction, fiction, fiction.” When you see yourself a certain way, it’s difficult to dispense with that self-identity, the notion of yourself as a fiction writer. In my darker, tougher moments, I’d think about how writing about books instead of actually writing books was a cop-out.
I questioned whether reading was a way for me to feel productive while not really doing anything. Like many readers, I’d count the number of books I’d read, the number of reviews I’d write, the number of Twitter followers I had—all proxy measurements for a level of productivity I wasn’t sure I felt. It’s a strange form of self-loathing to feel like you’re wasting your life when, in fact, you’re working hard and maybe doing exactly what you’re supposed to be.
Several years passed, good things happened: I got married, started working part-time at a Chicago indie bookstore, and then in June 2022, was lucky to get a job at StoryStudio. It had been 14 years since I took my first StoryStudio class and now I was back. But working for an organization that mentors writers isn’t quite the happy ending to my story.
Even after a year of being surrounded by talented and passionate writers, it took every stored amount of courage to talk myself into taking that first class at StoryStudio. It’s hard to be vulnerable, especially when you feel like people are expecting a certain level of quality from you. Of course, I had no reason to be scared. That summer 2023 class was exactly what I needed. The instructor and the other students were supportive, and most importantly, writing fiction again felt amazing.
Here’s the good news: it still feels amazing. It’s six months later and I’m still going strong. I’ve written a few other stories since the class, I’m outlining a novel, and working on a long piece about my Dad. The momentum is building! If you’ve ever been in a similar situation, you know it’s a huge deal to restart. Writing feels natural to me again and it feels good. It’s helping me cope with some unresolved issues and, perhaps most importantly, it’s fun.
So, why should you care about my journey back to writing? If you’ve made a resolution to write more this year, maybe this story can be some small inspiration. Maybe you’re stuck, life has interceded and your writing time has been usurped by job, family, or any number of things. If you’ve ever been frustrated, if you’ve ever been afraid to be vulnerable, if you’ve ever felt it was too late, or if you’ve ever needed a swift kick in the ass to get started, this piece is for you. There are lots of us who can empathize. Here are my two words of advice: write anyway.
Stories Matter. Tell Yours Today.
Find more information about writing classes and programs
at StoryStudio Chicago here.
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