Maybe I'm Not An Author After All

Sometimes I wonder if I’m really an author.

Which is a ridiculous thing to think when you’ve written several books.

There’s something strange about being a writer. You spend months — sometimes years — creating characters, relationships and stories from nothing but an idea in your head. Then you put them out into the world and suddenly you’re comparing yourself to authors who have sold millions of copies, won awards and seem to know exactly what they’re doing.

And you wonder… Who am I kidding?

Maybe someone will realise I’m not really a writer. Maybe this book isn’t good enough. Maybe people will stop reading. Maybe I should be doing something else.

That’s imposter syndrome.

And I suspect a lot more authors experience it than we ever admit.

Because writing a book takes a strange kind of bravery. You’re not just putting words on a page. You’re putting a little piece of yourself out there and asking complete strangers to care about it.

And yet, despite all the doubt, I keep doing it.

Because I love stories.

I love people who aren't perfect. People who have made mistakes. People who carry a bit of baggage. People who have lost something, found something, messed things up and sometimes get another chance.

Maybe that’s why I write the stories I do.

Romance for readers who have a past.

Stories about second chances, because perhaps I believe in them myself.

And maybe being an author isn't about finally reaching the point where you feel like you belong.

Maybe it's about feeling like an imposter… and writing the next book anyway.

So, yes. I still get imposter syndrome.

But I’m still here. Still writing. Still telling stories.

And, for now, I think that’s enough.