real imposter

Lest you might, in the wake of my previous piece on being a parent, consider me to be at all a wise or sensible individual, let me fill you in..

I don’t have much time for imposter syndrome, particularly when it comes to the world of fiction. It really doesn’t matter who the author might be. They, like me, are involved in making up imaginary people and situations. I’ve done it and they’ve done it. So what? In relation to such people, whoever they are, I see no reason for anyone to shuffle around feeling inferior or second rate. (I refer you to my previous piece on the toilets at the Mandarin Oriental Knightsbridge versus those of my local leisure centre for further illustration of this point.)

What I have been, however, is an actual imposter.

It’s 2019 and amid international speculation in relation to how Britain’s withdrawal from the EU will affect Ireland, north and south, I am contacted to ask if I would be interested in talking to a newspaper about how loyalists might react to new border arrangements. Could there be renewed sectarian violence? If I am agreeable, I would be speaking to the war correspondent of a big European paper. I know immediately that I am the total wrong person. I’ve no more of an idea that anyone else. There are so many people in Belfast better positioned than me to meet this correspondent, individuals with contacts and connections, with actual experience. But I say yes. I say yes immediately. Yes, that would be great.

Let me try to explain.

There are so many reasons why people read: to have their worldviews reinforced or challenged; to be comforted or consoled; to be scared, entertained, made to think; to escape. And so it goes, on and on. At some point or another, all of these have been what I’ve sought. And there are just as many ways in to read: casually, immersively, analytically, lightly, quickly. Sometimes I’m content just to skim for a rough gist whereas on rare occasion reading a book can have the intensity of a transcendental experience. And then there are the instances where fictive worlds colour or interact with ‘real life.’ I love going for a drink by myself, for example. And when I do, on every occasion for at least part of the time, I imagine that I’m a character in a Jean Rhys novel or short story. Down on my luck. In lodgings in Paris. When I’m looking out of the window of a train, I’m always the old woman in John Montague’s ‘All Legendary Obstacles.’ And so, when I’m planning to meet the war correspondent, I’m a person called Paula.

In my first collection, I have a story called ‘Arab States, Mind and Narrative.’ It’s based loosely on Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice. It’s a cover, if you will. (I did an event in a bookshop in Dublin where I read this story. I said at the beginning, this is based loosely on Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice. But it’s just as good. Silence. That was a joke, I added. Silence. Oh well.) Anyhow, in the story we have the same kind of ‘passion and degradation’ that Mann noted in relation to his work, but instead of Gustav von Aschenbach obsessed with the Polish boy, Tadzio, we have Paula, who works in a doctors’ surgery. She, in her middle age, has become fixated on someone she knew from university who became a foreign correspondent. He’s called Ryan Kedrov-Hughes. The hapless Paula, whom I happen to adore, goes on an ill-fated trip to Gosforth Library in Newcastle upon Tyne to hear Ryan Kedrov-Hughes do a book reading, but instead of ever getting there, she ends up covered in illuminating cream in at a swimming pool and then a kebab house. (A lot of Death in Venice intertextuality for anyone who vibes with that kind of thing.)

I thought, yes, I will meet the war correspondent because I’ll be in a sense living out Paula’s little dream for her. Paula, who chose her outfit and thought she looked like a cold-war spy but who headed off drunk to the library, having borrowed from the hotel receptionist a stapler so she could stop the kick pleat from her coat stick out at a ridiculous angle. I will be a continuation of Paula. A continuation with some calibration, some refinement of elements. Utterly ridiculous of course – idiotic - I am well aware of that, but still. But still.

As the day of the assignation grew closer I had the same icy feeling I remembered as a kid when I told some lies that would in the inexorable passage of time be undoubtedly found out. And yet wasn’t this totally different? Couldn’t I at any time cancel? I easily say that I had thought better of it, that there were so many other people with more knowledge and insight, that I was no longer available. In fact, I didn’t need to provide any excuse at all.

But still I was resolute. I was going. I sat up most of the night before reading articles and accessing online university theses about loyalism. I memorised many names and a few wild theories.

The agreed rendezvous point - a city centre bar - was, as I remember it, unusually dark. Well wouldn’t Paula think that so very fitting? The correspondent was courteous and focused. I thought how superior he was to Ryan Kedrov-Hughes who, at heart, was rather silly and narcissistic.

After a few perfunctory questions the correspondent took out a black notebook and pen. As I gave my answers his pen was poised to record my words. But the nib never made contact with the paper. Remembering some of my cribbed material from the previous night, I outlined a potentially apocalyptic scenario of paramilitary violence. The correspondent looked unconvinced.

Do you think that will really happen? he eventually asked.

Er, no, I replied.

And then he slowly closed his little black notebook. He left shortly after with scrupulous politeness.

I’d been a bit of a waste of time.

A time-waster.

An imposter, really.

Oh Paula, we were so similar all along. Still, we can have a laugh about it, can’t we?