Poser

He lingered on the outskirts of a large collective meet and greet, a casual gathering meant to establish networks for literary support. It took place in a large elegant house in a posh neighbourhood, which only added to his anxiety about being there alone. He spoke briefly with attendees but he’d evaded their questions through artful manoeuvres, like claiming distraction from a friend “on his way” or excusing himself to the bathroom.

He quickly conveyed his unwillingness to participate without explicitly saying so. He tapped his wine glass impatiently, looking from his watch to the door to the animated clusters of conversations - then released a weary sigh. His imposter syndrome felt like sneaking into a room late, only to shut the door louder than intended and discovering every face turned toward him. Seb, however, retreated inward when discomforted which gave him an outward air of cool detachment. He shrunk into himself, feeling this occasion presented all the potential for revealing the fraud he felt himself.

The only reason he had attended the party was because Roger had asked and since he’d enacted a tacit boycott on most social interactions of late, he thought he might help himself by attempting to preserve one of the few friendships he had left by agreeing to come. The fact that it included enduring acute humiliation and deepening disillusionment seemed to be a clause annexed to the internal memoir he was constantly in the process of constructing.

His general manner was dignified, his speaking manner possessed a quickness and competency. When he spoke he did so firmly and decisively, giving a finality to his refusals and a conviction to his acceptances. With these sharp tools in his arsenal he persuaded with ease, often even himself. He wasn’t a very sanguine man owing largely to his habits of reflection. His method of considering any moment, made every incident a monument of defeat that dwarfed him and exacerbated his emotional turmoil. Ultimately resulting in a neurotic and self pitying individual lacking unfortunately, in accountability and self regulation.

There are two reasons for his decision to attend: one was an inclination to believe he belonged there as a fellow writer in spite of the fact that he had nothing substantial to recommend him as one. Every attempt at one of his many novels revealed minute failures, prompting a retreat to pursuits with less daunting prerequisites. Yet this was not how he characterized the events when reflecting retrospectively. His version of events involved him being a victim of circumstance, a misunderstood genius who couldn’t catch a break. And although these claims weren’t all unfounded, much was left to the recesses of his mind, which understood his unique contributions to his misery.

The second reason was something new that had begun to take route in the form of intrusive thoughts. It dared him to break the mold and confront what he felt could not be worse than his current despondency.

As he internally cursed Roger for having ditched him he began to blame his friend for the uncomfortable situation he was in and brood over the many ways he was only partly to blame for it. This precipitated his next action, which was to begin hurriedly consuming glass after glass of the wine hospitably supplied by the innkeepers of the event. He felt the effects rapidly and had taken up a seat on one of the unoccupied settees. One of his former interlocutors had decided to confront him. The man was an author he had heard in conversation earlier that evening. He heard just enough to be captivated by his vivid retellings and earnest observations of his characters and plot. The author sat back in the chair, glanced at him and said “You’ve been hitting the booze heavily, reminds me of the last time I had writer's block.”

Seb eyed him suspiciously, wondering why he bothered to come over. “Not at all, I’m celebrating the way misanthropic writers do.” He said sardonically.

Then earnestly lowering his voice “I have no idea how to be in a crowd.”

He smiled at this “What are you celebrating?”

Seb suddenly became aware of the two paths he could take in answering - considering the briefness of the interaction and his utter desperation - he did as we often do, he chose the path of least resistance, promising the most immediate gratification.

Looking away he said “I recently resolved a diegetic problem that had been gnawing at me for months and now I can finally see myself finishing in the near future.” His heart raced as he merged fact with fiction and blurred lines between the two.

The author held out his glass and intimated a cheer, “Congratulations!” He said as we clinked glasses. “Sorry, what’s this book about?” he continued, growing more interested. Seb recounted the story in detail, inflating punctured plots previously abandoned, increasingly excited by the way it all flowed from him in a way it had never before. He felt the spark of inspiration, he tasted the zest of something fresh and invigorating and watched it infect the members of the small crowd that had gathered. Every waning concept of his self worth had revived.

He completed his presentation by sharing the problems he had uncovered during his explanation, along with their solutions—a process made easier by the freedom to think aloud. Drawing inspiration from someone in the room, he invented a vague character and inserted it into the world he had described. Through this improvisation, he explained the challenges he faced and, almost seamlessly, discovered solutions, presenting it all as if it had been carefully premeditated. This solidified his ruse and made him real to his peers and therefore, to himself. This provided everyone who had gathered in the course of his explanation with what seemed like a thorough understanding of a well developed book.

They invited him to another gathering that they were planning to have soon and, happily, he agreed.

The week that followed was a quiet affair of replays—snippets of conversations flickered like flashbacks while he stirred a pan or lay submerged in bathwater. The joy never lasted long. Each recollection was trailed by the heavy-footed truth that none of it had been real.

He’d occasionally pass his laptop and glance at it like it would at any moment flick its eyes in his direction - catching him.

He opened the door to let his friend in, not stopping to say “hello” but simply retreating back inside without offering an invitation. Roger was an intriguing combination of grounded, heady playfulness, he was completing his PHD in physics. He was ,therefore, someone Seb could aspire to and although he did in many ways, he resented how steadfastly he reflected every failure he had the misfortune to endure. They met in a philosophy class and they’d be friends who dabble in competitive argumentation ever since.

“Hey, hey, hey” he boomed noisily, claiming the space and restoring the room's hopeful hues.

“What happened at the party the other night, folks have been saying things.”

Seb closed his eyes and took a deep breath to compose himself and then braced “What things?” he said.

“Nothing bad by their standards. They were, of course, intrigued by you and yet I can’t help but be concerned.” He said, not making eye contact but trying hard to clearly observe his apparently ‘too long’ nose hairs in a small and sad mirror mounted to the living room wall.

“I invented some fodder to pass the time, what about it?”

“Uh, I see!” He said almost earnestly but knowing him Seb understood this to be a true assessment of this situation.

“It’s one thing to write a story and another thing entirely to become a fictional character yourself” He said, eyeing me now with a pity that made me recoil from his eyes. Roger had a unique ability to calmly cut through fodder and get to the pink, the soft spots. He was sharp, effective, pointed but he was true and kind.

Seb began to speak but his friend, perceiving his attitude in response, started again gently cutting him off.

“These are people I have to see again, Seb. I need some kind of explanation. I don’t care what conclusions they come to but I deserve more, don’t I?. Common, I’ll get cosy.” He said making the last statement with a playful nonchalance and wiggling his butt comically as he seated himself on the settee, positioned his elbow on his knee and rested his chin on his fist.

“What’s new Rog?” Seb rejoined “I’m all ideas and no follow through.” he sighed heavily, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I think I’ve started to believe in my failure so decidedly I don’t know where to begin rewriting it or if I can.”

Roger mused for a while then started.

“Okay, let's assume the worst. You’re inadequate, incapable - you’ve hit rock bottom, you’re a failure.” He said with unwavering conviction.

“Geez, yeah, I feel better already.” Seb said, scoffing.

“Let me finish, impossibly rude of you.” he said jokingly in an impressive imitation of a British accent.

“You lied to quite a lot of people about who you are -” I raised my head in protest and perceiving this he held up a finger and said “Hold on, hopefully it gets better, give me a chance.” he said smiling playfully and then began again.

“You summoned an intoxicating story from this very mind” poking my head as he said it “- and people loved you for it because you’re good at it. If it’s the unfortunate truth that you are inadequate, that you’re incapable of anything beyond delusion and sad displays for attention, you’ll make do. Your stories are all you have now.”

He said, patting Seb gently on the back as he visibly grappled with aching shame.

He continued.

“Be brave, why not now?” I met his eyes. They beamed hopefully.

“Put your story to paper but begin already, persevere and show it to someone. Enough. Don’t you think?”

His tone wasn’t harsh but he spoke plainly. The truth and sincerity of it left Seb feeling besieged. Every exit was a dagger with nowhere to go but through. He wouldn’t leave unscathed from the belly of this beast. The question now was whether or not he’d leave with only scars or if he would thieve the gold in his escape.

He sat jolted for a few moments after Roger had left. Something had been banging at the threshold of his mind and now he burst forth in desperation to answer it.

He sat down in front of his computer, remembered the intoxicating rush of inspiration he felt that night at the party and chased that feeling through the keys and onto the page.

With his new creations in hand he attended another gathering. In conversation, while his new friends sipped on their wine, read over each other's writing, providing constructive critiques and encouragement he inserted his newest work into the conversation “It’s a piece about imposter syndrome, the affliction of self-awareness and the obscure grace it bestows.” He spoke the word “us” and felt it reverberate through his chest and out into the room where it was accepted de facto. They perused and discussed his first real offering to the group. He attempted to defensively caution against its perfection but they waved off his reservations and reminded him that the process could not be avoided. He ceded with an apprehensive smile, only now developing a genuine understanding of the inevitability of judgement. It produced searing self awareness that made the air catch like a hook on thread tearing at the seams of him and gave an energy to his limbs which he battled with unsuccessfully - feeling fidgety and ridiculous to himself. But, surprisingly, the critiques had a welcome effect, stimulating and propelling his imagination toward newer ideas.

However, it had caused them to recollect the first story introduced to them by him and all that was enough to restore all concepts of past fears.

How would he explain the failure that led him here to this partial success? All his fears of never living up to their expectations or more accurately, his own, flooded his psyche and drowned all perception of progress.

Many months passed in this way. He established a rhythm that flowed like waves through the light and dark display pixels of his computer screen. With creation at his finger tips he breathed life into new characters. He seemed to sit up taller, with his back straight and his chest out as if inhaling to blow on a cole that needed coaxing into a flame. The dependable soft simmer of pride beating in his chest.

He’d been checking his emails when he came upon one in particular that promised to memorialize his growing self belief. A publishing company claiming to believe in his potential wanted to risk their winnings on him. As he grabbed his keys to leave—to be anywhere but in his stifling apartment—he struggled to control a surge of emotion, his thanks slipping out like susurrating prayers.

He waited anxiously in a moderately sized, modern conference room while fidgeting in his chair and stared up at a poster of a book that had received acclaimed notoriety, feeling the moment embossing itself on the fabric of his reality.

Except for the wall with the poster on it - the room was a fish bowl - this may have caused discomfort a year ago but now instead of making him withdraw he stared boldly back through the glass and dared the eyes outside to look.

“Mr-, thank you for coming to meet with us today. I’m Douglas-“ he publishing rep reached out to shake his hand and he received it.

Seb walked out of the conference room, feeling every nerve in his body vibrating with electricity - trying almost unwillingly to resist breaking into a sprint.

He needed to arrive anywhere he might more openly express the unrestrained rapture swelling beneath the surface.

He grabbed the nearest seat he could find, under the shade of a roofed bus stop and gave way to tears. He opened his laptop and stared at his words through bleary vision, unbelieving and still doubtful. Shaking his head in an attempt to test the reality of it.

He frowned, harmlessly correcting a little error. Tuk tuk tuk tuk, the backspace key like a backing track, tuk tuk tuk tuk - anxiety stewing tuk tuk - he finds more… Noticing silly mistakes he berated himself internally and as he compulsively picked at it - that inching fear creeping out malevolently like a shadow always in his peripheral - whispered inadudibly as thoughts do “You’re not there yet!”