Impostering Is Not A Syndrome: Confessions from AWP 2024

At the AWP 2024 conference in Kansas City, Autofocus hosted its first solo booth at the bookfair. Like we did two years ago in Philadelphia, we set a small box out by our books and marked it “Confessions.” We asked visitors if there was anything they’d like to share confidentially on a small rectangle of notepad paper and gave them a printed booklet of the first AWP Confessions collage-essay so they knew what we were doing. The following is a creation made from 62 of the 66 confessions we received. Some confessions have been edited for clarity or style.

I’m here, but now I’m broke.

I snuck in to hang out with my fiancée. The guards think I’m gone.

I feel like I just paid $1,000 to be on a high-profile reading. I bought it for my CV.

I rolled the dice in craps (and won a lot of money) for a certain editor of a certain popular online magazine into the wee hours of the morning at a casino. What can I say? I’m a lucky girl.

I didn’t come here to spend any money on anything. Just for the free shit.

I didn’t realize the stickers at the local coffee shop were $5 each – I stole three of them because I thought they were free.

I stole a roll of toilet paper for my hotel.

I stole a book from the Autofocus table.

I stole the AWP 2024 tote bags.

I stole $100 out of a guy’s nightstand after I had sex with him, after his friend fucked me earlier that night and they decided to switch girls. I felt I deserved it.

I have the kindest partner of 15 years – so kind – but all I think of is FREEDOM!

I think my friend’s husband saw me naked this morning. I’m not embarrassed except by how much I liked it.

I love to bite human flesh. I’ve never broken skin, but I want to.

I had his dick in my mouth this morning. My hands still smell like him.

Eating pussy is healing my religious trauma.

I hooked up with a guy after an off-site and will do it again.

I’ve had sex with four different beautiful black men since the conference started.

My bowel movements have been CRAZY!!

No one knows my tummy hurts and I’m being so brave about it.

I think everything I write is the same basic crap.

If my hand breaks through the plastic bag wrapped around it when I’m picking up dog turds in the yard, I don’t actually mind that much.

There’s an animal trapped in the walls of my AirBnB and, secretly, I hope it dies soon so I can sleep through the night without hearing it cry.

I broke my siblings’ hearts when I wrote about them, but I’m doing it again.

I know that Earth is fucked whether I recycle or not. But I still recycle.

I’m a recovering alcoholic and my pal accidentally gave me an alcoholic seltzer last night instead of sparkling water. I’m fine. Really. Just dance-y.

At the dance party, I danced to Michael Jackson. I am 56. Now I hurt.

One day I’ll be able to stop worrying about eating – too much, too little, am I recovered enough? Maybe I’ll be dead before that happens.

I am always semi-disassociated when talking to others. There are maybe two people in the world that are exceptions to that rule.

I’d rather be a good friend than a good writer.

I would always rather hang out with my friends than write.

I am in love with both of my best friends!

Once upon a time, I hangover barfed on a friend’s doorstep and ran by accident. (Well I barfed by accident. I ran on purpose.) Don’t tell her.

I left a reading before my friend’s turn to read. Hope they still think I love them.

I think I look beautiful in every single selfie I’ve ever shot.

Most people here are narcissists posing as socialists.

I have a really bad shit-talk reflex. I imagine people shit-talking about how much shit-talking I do. I hate myself in others; others in myself.

I cannot stand books about motherhood/parenthood, sex, or children, but I cannot say so to anyone.

I’ve spoken so much in the past three days. I have no idea what I’m saying.

I feel like I’m still 13 most of the time and don’t know what I’m doing.

I have been so out of the writing loop since I almost died in 2015 (the year my book of poems was published, BTW) that I feel like I don’t belong at AWP – or among the “real writers.”

Impostering is not a syndrome; it’s a way of life.

I haven’t written since my MFA… two years ago!

I feel like I am never getting my foot in any of these places.

I’m not sure I really wanted to be here.

I feel like I don’t belong anywhere or to anyone, and that’s all I really want.

I want to be recognized more than I want to write.

AWP is one of the only times in the year that I feel like myself.

I feel happier here alone than back home with those I love.

I mainly came to AWP to see my lit crush in real life.

I found my soulmate. She didn’t find hers yet. This summer, I’m going to see her for the first time. I feel like I’m going on a journey that’s already ended.

As a young boy, I set a shed on fire while playing with matches. The entire structure burned to the ground in minutes. The shed contained the owner’s World War II uniform and memorabilia. All was lost.

I keep every dead spider I find and hide them in my freezer behind the waffles. There are four in there right now. (I put all the living ones outside).

I’m afraid I’ll never know how to properly love.

I know you only like me when you need me.

I don’t think you’ve changed at all in three years (except a tragic haircut), and I take a perverse pleasure in it.

He thinks I’m over him. I won’t be for the rest of my life.

I still love him. I’m still waiting.

I often feel like I am the only writer who genuinely hates writing. It’s super lonely.

Sometimes I wonder if I even like writing, or if I just do it because people tell me I’m good at it.

The truth is I do love to write; perhaps I’m not very good at it yet.

I don’t know where I belong anymore, but I’m strangely comfortable with that.

I am alone in the world, and I have never been so happy.