Imposter Syndrome

Having been thinking about it for so long, the moment had come.

The nerves kicked in, but I decided to go through with it, nevertheless.

I carried the book up to the counter, where I was welcomed with a smile and a hello.

“Hello,” I replied in kind, but probably with a strained smile, tampered by my nerves. 

The bookseller made a move to take the book from me, but I drew it away before they could, receiving a slightly miffed expression in response.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not buying this book. I was wondering if you’d like me to sign it? I’m, uh . . . I’m the author you see,” I said, showing her the cover, as if that might reveal the veracity of my claim. “I am” — a glance at the cover— “RP Jones.”

“Johns,” the bookseller said.

“Sorry?”

“The book is by RP Johns. You said Jones.”

 Another glance at the cover. . .

“Yes. That’s right. RP Johns,” I replied. “It can sometimes be pronounced that way.” 

But here’s the thing, I’m not RP Johns. I haven’t ever written a book; I just wanted to know how it felt, walking into a bookshop and signing a copy of a book — even if it wasn’t actually my book.

With all the books they have – lots – they weren’t to know it wasn’t mine.

Except they did.

“You can’t be the author of that book, I’m afraid,” the bookseller said, still giving friendly face, “because I know RP Johns. This is her book. And she’s already signed it,” she said, showing me the inky scrawl on the title page. “See?”

“Ah,” I replied. “Ah, yes. Yes, I do see.”

Whoever this RP Johns was, they had beaten me to it.

“Oh!” I put a hand to my forehead. “This isn’t my book, you’re absolutely right. Just a mo . . .”

I trotted over to the new books and picked a random one off the shelf.

To Hell with Death and Mercy. 

Hmm. It wasn’t really the book I wanted to claim to have written, but the bookseller was watching me, so I could hardly continue browsing to find a better pick.

“This one,” I said, trotting back. “Can I please sign this one?”

“I’m afraid not,” the bookseller replied, holding out their hand to take the book from me.

“Right,” I said, handing over the book and patting the pockets of my blazer.

I paused, hands on my hips. “Right.”

With a nod, I left the bookshop to head to the local WHSmith up the road, or whatever they call themselves now, to see if they had any better pickings.

vss #46

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