Picture this: I'm sitting at the dining room table in my mother's condo, holding the printer's proof of my third book in the Oliver the Owl series.
Three books.
I should have been popping confetti and hooting louder than Oliver himself.
Instead, some tiny part of my brain was still waiting for someone to point at me and say:
“Hey, you. You're not a real author.”
Welcome to author imposter syndrome, where every success feels suspiciously like an elaborate prank you've somehow wandered into—and the only thing more reliable than self-doubt is the need for snacks.
Apparently, Three Books Weren't Enough Proof
You would think having actual books with my name printed on them would settle the matter.
Apparently my brain required additional documentation.
Just when I'd start thinking, Hey, maybe I am pretty good at this, another little voice would show up:
Don't get too comfortable, Rayna Jo Zest. The publishing police could arrive at any moment.
By then I'd written Oliver the Owl: The Culinary Pro and A Sweet Season, and I was preparing to release Mix, Play, Stir: A Coloring and Activity Book.
And I still found myself wondering:
Am I really an author? Or am I just a creative owl enthusiast who somehow got permission to play pretend?
My Year of “Faking It”
Less than a year earlier, none of this existed.
Then Oliver swooped into my imagination, carrying pieces of my family's restaurant history, childhood memories and my love of storytelling right along with him.
One book became two.
Two became three.
People bought them. Kids read them. Parents told me they loved them.
Very suspicious behavior all around.
Did I suddenly feel like an author?
Of course not.
I felt like a kid walking around in grown-up shoes, hoping nobody noticed they were two sizes too big.
Meanwhile, Oliver was out there making pies, cocoa and gingerbread cookies like the culinary professional he apparently was.
Clearly, he had his career figured out.
I was just taking dictation.
The Audacity of People Actually Liking My Work
This is where imposter syndrome gets particularly ridiculous.
Someone tells you their child loves your book and instead of simply thinking:
That's wonderful.
your brain responds:
Really? Are you sure?
A teacher uses Oliver in a classroom.
Suspicious.
Someone comes to a book signing.
Interesting.
A reader asks when the next book is coming.
Now they're clearly involved in the conspiracy.
At some point, you have to admit that perhaps all of these people aren't participating in an elaborate scheme designed to convince you that you're an author.
Maybe they just like what you created.
Imagine that.
Oliver Probably Had It Figured Out Before I Did
One of the things I love about Oliver is that his stories aren't about everything going perfectly.
Buttons go missing. Kitchens get messy. Things don't always happen according to plan.
And somehow, everything still works out.
There might have been a lesson in there for me.
Maybe becoming an author wasn't going to arrive with some magical moment when I suddenly felt completely qualified, confident and official.
Maybe I was already doing it.
Writing the stories.
Publishing the books.
Meeting readers.
Showing up at events.
Learning as I went.
Apparently that's what being an author looked like—even if my brain hadn't received the memo.
Hoot On, Rayna
So yes.
I am an author.
Not because I finally passed some imaginary test or because the publishing police mailed me an official membership card.
I'm an author because I write books.
Books that grew from family memories, ridiculous ideas, creativity, a lot of learning and one very ambitious little owl.
I can still question myself.
I can still wonder whether I know what I'm doing.
I can even occasionally look at three books sitting in front of me and think, Who let me do this?
But I don't have to wait until I feel completely legitimate to acknowledge what I've already built.
And if another wave of imposter syndrome shows up?
It can take a seat.
Oliver and I have work to do.
Hoot hoot,
Rayna Jo Zest
(Definitely an Author)
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