Somewhere along the way, a lot of writers picked up a nasty little belief: “If I’m not producing a ton, I’m not a real writer.”
That belief feels logical… because it comes with math.
More words.
More posts.
More drafts.
More “I’m busy.”
More evidence that you’re doing the thing.
And if you’ve ever felt that cold, sinking fear of being found out, of being exposed as “not actually talented”… then volume becomes a strangely comforting hiding place. You can point to output and say, “See? I belong here.”
Sure, volume can be a signal of discipline. It can also be a smoke machine. It fills the room so you don’t have to look at what you’re afraid to face: whether your work is landing, whether you’re growing, whether you’ve actually said what you meant to say.
Imposter syndrome isn’t cured by writing more.
It’s cured by writing truer.
And that takes quality.
Not “fancy prose” quality. Not “impress other writers” quality. Real quality. Clarity. Resonance. A reader finishing a paragraph and thinking, “That felt honest. That felt like someone was actually there.”
That kind of quality does something volume can’t do.
It builds identity.
Not the “I have a website therefore I’m a brand” identity. The internal one. The one that makes you stand up straight and say, “I’m a writer because I do the work that matters. Even when it scares me.”
Why your brain keeps chasing volume
Imposter syndrome is basically an anxious accountant living in your head.
It wants measurable proof that you’re “allowed” to be here.
Quality is harder to measure. It requires judgement. It requires time. It requires sitting still long enough to notice what’s weak, what’s unclear, what’s missing, what’s dishonest.
Volume, on the other hand, gives instant dopamine.
You write 2,000 words. You feel productive. You post something. Someone likes it. Your brain goes, “WooHOO! We’re safe.”
But safety is not the same thing as growth.
A lot of writers confuse movement with progress,…and to be clear that’s not a character flaw. It’s a survival strategy.
If you grew up (or simply lived long enough) learning that your worth came from performance, productivity, or being “useful,” then you will naturally drift toward output as validation. I know, because I used to be in that boat.
You will write more to feel less afraid.
And it works… briefly.
Then the fear returns, because the fear isn’t about how much you’re writing.
The fear is about whether you matter.
Yeah.
Imposter syndrome, that nasty little imp on your shoulder, whispers, “You’re only valuable if you can keep producing.”
It’s lying.
Your value isn’t in your speed.
It’s in your signal.
The question isn’t “How much did you write this week?”
The question is “Did you write anything that strengthened you?”
Because that’s what quality does. It strengthens the writer.
The quiet truth: quality is what makes you durable
Volume is easy when you’re excited.
Quality is what you choose when the honeymoon ends.
Quality is what you choose when you realize the chapter is messy, the character doesn’t work yet, and the plot twist isn’t clever, it’s confusing. Quality is what you choose when the shiny rush wears off and you have to face what you actually built.
This is why quality develops professionals.
Professional writers aren’t the ones who never doubt themselves. Good grief, no. They’re the ones who keep revising their thinking, keep refining their instincts, keep improving the part of them that can tell the truth on the page.
Quality makes you durable because it forces you to become someone who can handle reality.
And that is the real opposite of imposter syndrome.
Not confidence. Not hype. Not “fake it till you make it.”
Reality.
You stop feeling like an imposter when your internal story matches your actions.
“I’m a writer” becomes true when you do what writers do: you craft meaning.
You shape experience.
You create something that can survive outside your head.
That takes quality.
“But I’m not good enough yet…”
Correct.
…welcome to being alive.
The mistake is thinking “not good enough yet” means “I should hide behind volume until I magically become good enough.”
Noooooooooo.
That’s how writers stay trapped for years.
Lots of output.
Very little progress.
A constant feeling of running, but never arriving.
Here’s a mind shift for you to consider:
You are allowed to create work that is still developing… while treating it like it matters.
Because your job isn’t to be perfect.
Your job is to be honest and improving.
That’s it.
That means you can stop asking, “Is this impressive?” and start asking, “Is this true? Is it clear? Is it doing what I meant it to do?”
That shift alone will improve your writing faster than doubling your output.
A simple reframe that kills the volume trap
If you only remember one line from this article, let it be this:
Your writing is NOT a content factory. It’s a SIGNAL AMPLIFIER.
Factories chase production. Signals chase clarity.
When you write for clarity, your output becomes more valuable even if it’s less frequent. You create pieces that can be repurposed, expanded, refined, and turned into books, courses, articles, discussions, community prompts, and paid products without starting from scratch every time.
Volume burns. Quality compounds.
That’s not poetic. That’s just good business.
The “worth” question nobody wants to answer
Most writers don’t actually struggle with writing.
They struggle with believing they’re worth taking seriously.
That’s why imposter syndrome hits so hard.
It isn’t just about craft.
It’s about identity.
And identity changes through experiences that create a new internal conclusion.
That’s why a single mind shift can be worth far more than a pile of productivity hacks.
It’s also why serious writers invest in rooms that sharpen them.
Not rooms that flatter them. Not rooms that cheerlead every draft. Rooms that help them see themselves clearly and move forward with skill and courage.
Which leads to the question people quietly wrestle with, but rarely say out loud:
“If I pay to be in a writing community… is it worth it?”
Here is the absolute, unequivocal, rock solid truth to that question:
It depends.
(smirk)
Are you paying for content… or are you paying for change?
If you’re paying for change, then the price isn’t about access. It’s about transformation.
If you get even one mental shift that helps you write better, endure longer, finish the book you keep circling, or stop sabotaging your own progress… that’s not a cost.
That’s leverage.
Most writers spend more than that on “almost helpful” stuff every month. A book they never finish. A course they never implement. Software they don’t use. Another stack of advice that makes them feel behind.
A room that actually changes your thinking is rare.
And rare is valuable.
Three practical moves to break imposter syndrome this week
Replace “How many words?” with “What did I strengthen?”
At the end of each writing session, write one sentence:
“What did I improve today?”
If the answer is “I wrote a lot,” you’re still trapped.
If the answer is “I finally made the character’s choice believable,” you’re growing.Pick one quality target for 30 days
Not ten. One.
Examples: clarity, emotional truth, scene tension, dialogue that sounds human, better endings, tighter stakes.
Quality improves fastest when it’s focused.Do your work in a room that has standards
Imposter syndrome thrives in isolation, because your mind becomes the only judge. And your mind is not an unbiased judge. It’s a paranoid storyteller with a flair for drama.
Get around writers who are serious about craft and honest about reality. The goal is not applause. The goal is calibration.
Final thought
Imposter syndrome feeds on fog.
Fog is uncertainty. Fog is secrecy. Fog is performing productivity while avoiding the deeper work.
Quality burns fog.
When you pursue quality, you become someone who can say, without acting tough or pretending:
“I’m not the fastest writer in the world. But I’m the kind of writer who gets better. I finish. I refine. I tell the truth. I build work that lasts.”
That identity doesn’t come from volume.
It comes from choosing the harder thing on purpose, often, until it becomes who you are.
That’s the real kill shot.
And if you need a place to practice that with other serious writers… that’s exactly what we do inside the JaimeBuckley.com community.
You’re welcome.
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I'm pretty generous with my definition of writer, if you've written something, you are a writer. But even with that clear definition, i still find the moments of doubt. I used to just punch through that and write anyway, but my writing quality suffered. This is the year for top notch only, and that looks like larger gas between writing until I know inside what I want to put down, not just the next word, but the next word that holds weight. Deliberate writing is so far outside of how I like to do it, but the goal is quality and that takes time. So, I'll give it the time it needs
It's a funny thing, this Imposter Syndrome. I never knew what it was when I was younger. I never even heard it until I started writing here. The thing is, I've never once thought I was an imposter. I started writing when I was about 15'ish. In that fifty years, I don't even know how many stories or books I started. I finished them, but never sent them out. I didn't believe in myself enough, and I was always writer too much for the word count.
When I came here, I posted my first story in its entirety, which was too much. Live and learn. This is though, I never once doubted posting here. It was before we had notes. It was when you posted, people saw it, and either subscribed to you, or passed along. You subscribed to those you wanted to support. You grew by word of mouth. And I started growing. When Notes came, I grew even more.
And that's when I started seeing things about imposter syndrome. I've always believed I was a writer. Always. I never tell myself I can't do it. I don't let myself get down just because I get two or three hearts and no restacks. I realize that these things take time. You can put a story out, and people are still reading it eight months later. If you don't have subscribers, you have followers. I have more followers than I ever would have imagined.
I have time to work on my stories. Retirement affords me a lot of time. I like the novellas I write because it's not quite a book, and just a bit more than a short story. And I like each one of them. The one I'm working at the moment, is the one I like the most. When I start a new one, that will be the one I like the most. I like writing my stories, and thankfully people like to read them. The ones I have on my 'Stack are the ones I'm supposed to have. They chose to be with me because they like my writing. How can you think you're an imposter, if people want to read and follow you?