THE CHAIR IS STILL THERE

By Clay Stafford

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Mostly working from home for the majority of my life, there was no boss to meet, no comptroller checking my clock-in for work, no meetings I had to be on time for, only me, waking up and stretching in bed, thinking of how I envisioned my day to play out.

Most days were and are filled with excitement. I knew what I was going to do. I loved what I did. I was blessed to be able to do it. Most mornings were filled with ambition and excitement, so I couldn’t wait to get to work and get started. But there were those dreaded mornings when I awoke, stared at the ceiling, and realized there was no fuel in the creative engine for the day. On those mornings, there was no urgency to get out of bed, no spark inspiring me to begin. There wasn’t even resistance. In the dim light of the morning sun coming through the cracks of the closed plantation shutters, there was simply a hollow quiet where momentum typically was and should have been. Those moments felt empty, nothing resembling the welcomed heaviness of life, just a distant void, as though everything that normally mattered had somehow, during the night while I was dreaming, slipped down the hallway to another bedroom and closed the door, sometimes even locking it behind it, climbing into the bed and pulling the covers over its head.

Those were days that felt like failures even before they began, and because I predetermined them while lying in bed, they usually turned out as I expected. I used to think I could only show up for my life when my inner world was in agreement, when want and purpose matched, when I knew why I was doing something, and when the effort made sense. I could only do things when I felt like it or when the meaning was clear. When that alignment was absent, I assumed the day was already lost and a wasted day of failure lay ahead. I felt it in my heart and even in my bones. I hadn’t yet learned that the real discipline of my life wasn’t built on feeling ready, but on returning.

It wasn’t until later in my life, when maybe maturity or practice, or even serendipitous events, proved me wrong, that I realized these mornings were simply a different kind of threshold, their own unique entry into a day that, at first glance, felt formless and uninspired. Somewhere along the way, I learned that discipline, what I needed to create the perfect day, was less about preplanning, force, or even intention, but more about presence.

I don’t know when my thinking started to shift. I certainly didn’t make it happen. I didn’t will it. It certainly wasn’t some trite self-help or productivity hack. It didn’t even arrive with some revelation. It came oddly and unplanned, as a habit. Whether I had the vision for the day or not, I got my coffee as usual, set up my desk, and sat down in my chair to work, even when I didn’t know what I wanted to work on or, if I did, even when I wasn’t inspired. Motivation didn’t earn me a spot at my desk. Routine did. On those days, I kept the bar low. I didn’t promise much to those hours except the assurance to my computer that I’ll be close by if needed. No plans were negotiated, no meaning defined, and rarely was any enthusiasm offered to the Muse as tribute. Sometimes on those days, I thought my purpose in life was to drink a cup of coffee, watch my birdfeeder, and ponder, in the world of evolution, what crazy lizard found itself jumping out of a tree and realizing it could fly, thus creating a new species of birds. In other words, with no plans or inspiration, I sat there because I didn’t know what else to do.

It surprised me at some point how little was required to sit there. It was freeing. Even on those hollow mornings, the chair was still there, waiting. I didn’t need conviction. I didn’t need direction. I didn’t need to believe that anything I was doing mattered. I only needed not to leave. I needed to sit with whatever drifted through my mind. The common thread behind it all was my chair, on productive days and on days of nothing. It was always sitting there, consistent, no matter where my head was. So, I returned to it, some days with more fervor than others, but always with a refusal to hand over control to the weather outside (I write outside on my porch) or even the weather, no matter how calm or turbulent, going on inside of me.

Those neutral days of nothingness were not heroic. They were days that neither lifted nor dragged, days that offered no motivational or dramatic reason or inspiration to move forward, but at the same time, no compelling reason not to be there. It seemed on those days that the world asked nothing of me other than attendance in that chair, across the lawn from the birdfeeder, pondering the processes of the past few million years.

When I think back on my own evolution now, what strikes me is not how much time I wasted sitting there, but rather how honest those hours were. Out of boredom, I did begin to tinker, but without the need or motivation to impress, accelerate, or aim beyond the moment, I moved straight to the essentials as they popped into my head. It was all rather casual. There was no adornment, no performance, no word count, no chasing of superiority. Just small, impulsive, inner-driven activities, whether rain or shine, just some sort of private continuity with days more productive, but with no invisible audience or ego applauding, but at the same time nothing left undone. When inspired, sitting in the chair, I did what I felt inspired to do, letting direction come from the nothingness.

Over time, something shifted. Those neutral (I wouldn’t call them wasted) days, those unremarkable returns to the chair each morning, began to alter the way I understood myself in the same way that I could envision lizards growing wings millions of years ago. I don’t think I ever patted myself on my back for my consistency of sitting in a chair (that hardly seems a heroic act), but I did begin to trust it as an inkling of something I couldn’t put my finger on began to take form in my consciousness, in my being. Showing up and sitting down, I began to sense that I did not need to feel aligned with my work or even with myself to remain connected. Just drink coffee and watch the birds, and occasionally look at my computer screen. I didn’t need the weather, inside or out, to give me permission. Before I stepped into the day, I needed to go to my chair and sit. And, surprise to me, somewhere along the way, my fingers would find their way to the keyboard, and I would start to type. Somewhere by the end of the day, I would pause and look back on all that I had accomplished, even though I had had no preplanned direction.

Trust accumulated in ways I couldn’t have articulated then, but it did soften the drama around the difficulty of being aimless. It quieted the argument between desire and duty. It reframed commitment as identity rather than effort. I began to see that most of what endures in life is built not on bursts of certainty but on the steady, unimpressive, evolutionary cadence of return.

The curious, but also understandable, thing is that the work of my life didn’t constantly improve in those days, but my relationship with my work, and even myself, did. Sitting down in my chair became less conditional, less dependent on mood or inspiration, or the unpredictable tides of self-belief or raw motivation. Sitting down in my chair became, instead, something like a morning welcome, a companionship, coming with the predictability and comfort of knowing that the sun will rise each day and I will sit: steady, imperfect, patient.

Looking back, I never found the dramatic clarity I once believed I needed to move forward. I saw something quieter. I discovered that life continues, like birds in flight, even when eagerness does not. I found that meaning doesn’t always come hand in hand with willingness. I discovered that neutrality is fertile in its own way. We don’t need a parade; we only need a chair.

I once thought that discipline was a loud, cinematic declaration, something founded in great ambition or proven with relentless, knock-the-walls-down drive, but the truth, for me, instead lived in a place outside on the back porch, an ordinary chair, waiting without fanfare, and asking for nothing other than my presence. “Come as you are,” it called. “If nothing else,” it said in its Southern way, “just sit a spell.”

Perhaps the unexpected lesson for me is this: the parts of life that endure are not always those born from passion, certainty, or predetermination while lying in the bed in the morning and staring at the ceiling with the morning light coming in through the shutters, but instead it is from the steady, unremarkable decision to get my coffee, in my routine, and sit in my chair long enough for meaning to find its way back. The chair is always waiting.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

THE WORLD GOT WIDER

By Clay Stafford

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For a long time, I believed that anything worth pursuing should come with a clear signal, some sign, momentum, or external confirmation that I was moving in the right direction. I think I was waiting for the circus to come to town. Looking for that exterior confirmation, though, quietly narrowed my world without me even noticing.

I didn’t really understand this belief, this idea that I was essentially performing for others. I didn’t think about it. It wasn’t something I put into words. It just showed up, thoughtlessly, like the morning sun. Unlike the mark of a new day, however, this subconscious belief or need for validation manifested as hesitation, maybe doubt. When no one clapped, no one replied to my desperate phone calls, letters, or emails, or no one offered a word of encouragement or support, I found I slowed down. I started to wait. “Give me a sign,” my needy heart exclaimed. I started second-guessing my map. I equated uncertainty with fear, that I was about to make a mistake.

I don’t know when this thinking began; it may have started in childhood, perhaps reflecting a need for parental approval in a conditionally loved world. The shame is that it shaped my life more than I realized. It made me cautious, even timid, in moments that required courage. Wherever it began and however it grew, this subconscious belief that I needed that validation trained me to seek approval from others rather than to seek direction from within. I couldn’t help but think that when progress was slow, and especially when it stalled, it was proof that I was off track. When I felt something mattered, but yet it demanded so much unapplauded effort, I wondered if I wasn’t forcing something that should not be rather than earning something that should not have to be affirmed.

Somewhere along the way, it hit me. Why? Maturity? God-given insight? Not sure. I know nothing external changed. There were no circus clowns. No breakthrough arrived. But inside me, the moment that my life began to change, the moment that I began to change, was a shift in the limiting belief itself.

Somewhere in my Los Angeles days, I began to notice that the work that mattered most, not only to me, but to others, oddly rarely announced itself. In its inception, in its call to adventure, it made no promises. I didn’t have to wait for the green light to proceed. I didn’t need any person in power to give me some grand confirmation that I had finally found the path. Instead, my life and work began to show up, not with fireworks, but in small, unglamorous ways.

I found I was passionately involved in my work and life when previously I would have told myself to quit. Problems or roadblocks? Instead of avoiding or dismissing them and walking away, I found I started returning to them day after day, living and loving life regardless of who, if anyone, ever noticed. The silence, the fact that no one was even noticing, stopped coming across to me as a warning. The silence became the mental space where my life and work began to live and grow. And from the silence, to my surprise, others began to notice.

“Reassurance” is the key word. I no longer needed it. And when I began to accept this, to believe and live it, subtly, my attention changed. Without needing approval, I began to notice the quiet pull toward specific ideas or desires that were intrinsically my own, not someone else’s to validate. Life started at that moment to be an adventure, even if it was nothing more than showing up, even when nothing was resolved. It didn’t matter. I was living me. I accepted that sometimes understanding comes only after effort, not before. Looking back, I realized that my strongest decisions, the ones that actually changed and transformed my life, were rarely made in moments of confidence. They were made in moments of scared commitment.

With regret, but also with thankfulness for the experience, I realized how much life-energy and opportunity I had wasted, misreading what were, in fact, neutral conditions and neutral exterior feedback. No response didn’t mean that anyone was rejecting me. Resistance didn’t mean I was going in the wrong direction. Slow progress didn’t mean I was a failure or ill-equipped.

Letting go of the belief that I didn’t need external validation for how I wanted to live my life didn’t erase doubt. Don’t get the wrong impression. But what it did was to strip doubt of its authority. Uncertainty stopped being a verdict and became something I could walk alongside. I could live in the present, not the past or the future, and though it might feel uncomfortable to take risks others dared not, doubt was no longer in charge. Living the life I wanted to live became the mantra.

Letting go of that belief, that need for affirmation, didn’t suddenly make my progress in the world easier, but it did make it wider. Possibilities that had always been there came into view, and I was able to accept them without any need for anyone else’s approval. These possibilities that I dared not dream of didn’t change. They were there all the time. I simply stopped requiring permission to see them. Or honor them. Or rather, I realized the only permission I needed to live the life of my dreams on my own terms was mine.

I realized the world doesn’t widen because circumstances change. It widened when I stopped asking permission to dream big dreams. I wasn’t walking with the consent or acceptance of others anymore. I was walking with uncertainty, and noticing I still belonged, not to the whims of others, but to myself. I began writing my life, telling the story I knew should be told, even when I walked alone.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Healthy Living Practices for Writers – Silent Killer: Imposter Syndrome

By Mary Lynn Cloghesy and Jason Schembri

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Did you know that you have a silent killer within you? One that is capable of not only derailing your writing life, but also your profession, personal relationships, and pastimes? Recent research has shown that creatives are uniquely susceptible to this disease due to the subjective nature of their work, the solitary aspects of their craft, and the competitive landscape of the arts. A whopping 70% of writers will suffer from this affliction, including some unlikely characters. Consider what Dr. Maya Angelou has said about herself and her work, “I have written eleven books, but each time I think, ‘Uh oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.’” She’s not the only one. Even John Steinbeck has cried, “I am not a writer. I’ve been fooling myself and other people.” If the icons among us are negatively impacted by Imposter Syndrome, then what hope is there for the rest of us? Clearly, it’s critical to know what it is and how to deal with it in order to protect ourselves from this author interrupter. 

What is Imposter Syndrome?

While you may not know the term, I’m guessing you’re familiar with its symptoms. Ask yourself: Have I experienced persistent self-doubt or feelings of inadequacy despite evidence of success? Have I wondered if I was a fraud or feared being exposed as such regardless of my skills, qualifications or achievements? If so, you’re in the thralls of Imposter Syndrome. It’s a form of dysfunctional thinking that has been described as “chronic self-doubt and a sense of intellectual fraudulence that overrides any feelings of success or external proof of competence.” This mental affliction plays on your fears, needling you with subliminal suggestions, and causes you to question yourself, your talent, and your ability to achieve your dreams. It’s subtle, insidious, and stalking you right now. In fact, it’s such a common experience among writers that it could be considered an epidemic.

While Imposter Syndrome will cause you to hang your head in shame, it has many other faces. It will drive you to adopt the behaviours listed below rather than address its root causes, especially when you are feeling vulnerable, such as during the query process or in the midst of critiques. Here are the masks it wears:

• Perfectionism – Setting impossibly high standards and feeling like a failure when they aren’t met.

• Overworking – Trying to compensate for perceived inadequacies by working excessively.

• Discounting success – Attributing achievements to luck or external factors rather than talent, skill or effort.

• Fear of failure – Avoiding new challenges due to the fear of being "found out.”

Diagnosing Imposter Syndrome

To combat this disease, you must diagnose it correctly, but how do you know if you’re simply having a bad day or struggling with Imposter Syndrome? Frequency and consistency are important factors to consider, as are patterns in your thinking that reveal deep-seated worry and self-sabotage. Telltale signs that you are suffering from Imposter Syndrome include the following:  

• Negative Self-Talk

• Do you often think, "I’m not a real writer," even though you’re increasing your word count regularly and actively creating new works?

• Do you believe your work isn’t good enough, no matter how much you revise?

• Perfectionism & Procrastination

  • Do you keep rewriting the same passages because they’re "never good enough"?

  • Do you delay submitting work or starting a project because you fear failure?

• Dismissing Accomplishments

  • Do you downplay praise or attribute success to luck instead of your talent and hard work?

  • Even after recognition (awards, nominations, publication), do you feel like you don’t deserve it?

• Fear of Being "Exposed"

  • Do you worry that other writers, editors, or readers will figure out you’re a fraud?

  • Does the idea of publishing or speaking about your work make you anxious?

• Comparing Yourself to Others

  • Do you feel like other authors are "real writers," but you’re just faking it?

  • Do you look at their success and think, "I’ll never be as good as them"?

• Overworking to Prove Yourself

  • Do you push yourself to exhaustion, believing you must work twice as hard to deserve success?

  • Do you avoid celebrating milestones because you can’t accept you’ve really earned them yet?

What can you do about it?

Recognizing Imposter Syndrome is the first step. Take off the mask, look in the mirror, and say out loud, “I am a writer. I am accomplished, I work hard, and I deserve my success,” then notice how you feel. Free write about it. The key is to manage self-doubt rather than attempt to eliminate it. Leading expert, Dr. Valerie Young, author of The Secret Thoughts of Successful Women, has stated, “The only difference between people who feel like impostors and those who don’t is that the impostors’ thoughts stop them.” Here are some practical steps: 

• Acknowledge It & Call It Out

• When you hear that inner voice saying, "I’m not a real writer," or "I don’t deserve this," challenge it. Ask yourself: What evidence do I have that this is true? Spoiler: There isn’t any. Use the mirror to reflect what is real instead. Write an affirmation and say it out loud to yourself, then get back to your writing. Your work and readers are waiting.

• Reframe Your Thinking

• Pay attention to your inner dialogue. Instead of saying, "I just got lucky" try: "I worked hard, improved my craft, and took advantage of my opportunities." Whenever doubts and fears come up, remind yourself, "Every writer doubts themselves—this is normal, but it doesn’t define me."

• Keep a “Proof” Folder

• Create a digital or physical folder where you save:
  ✅ Positive feedback from editors, agents, or readers
  ✅ Good reviews or contest recognitions 
  ✅ Personal milestones—finishing a draft, hitting a word count goal, getting shortlisted
  On tough days, revisit these to remind yourself that your work has real value and made a positive impact.

• Stop the Comparison Game

• It’s easy to look at other writers and feel lost or behind, but their journey isn’t yours. Even bestselling authors struggle with Imposter Syndrome! Instead of comparing yourself to others, focus on your progress. The only person to compare yourself to is you. Also, cheer others on knowing they need your support as much as you need theirs.

• Write Through It

• Fear and self-doubt thrive in inaction. Keep writing, even if you don’t feel "good enough" that day. One of the best ways to grow as a writer is to write. The only way out is through.

• Share Your Struggles with Fellow Writers

• Imposter Syndrome relies on silence. Talking about it with other writers can be eye-opening—they probably feel the same way! Other authors will have tips as to how to beat this too, so reach out to your critique group or friends in the field to gather collective wisdom. 

• Celebrate Your Wins (Big & Small)

• Finished a chapter? Got positive feedback? Submitted to an agent? Celebrate it! Recognizing progress helps rewire your brain to see your success instead of dismissing it. If in doubt, go for a quick win: write a flash fiction piece, watch a video on the art and craft of writing, read one of your favorite authors. Your choices are endless.

• Accept That Doubt is Normal

• Even established authors battle Imposter Syndrome. The trick is to acknowledge the fear but not let it control you. You’re not an imposter—you’re just a writer pushing past your perceived limits.

Healthy Living Top Tip

Like most diseases, it’s a coordinated approach over time that promotes healing. While there are some actionable steps included in this article to help you diagnose and manage Imposter Syndrome, you may need to go deeper. Our top tip for this month is to be curious about what’s happening, especially if you are struggling, and to acknowledge that you are not alone. 

Don’t allow your internal worries to cross over into reality and kill your success. One thing that is unique to writers is we get to breathe life into “real” imposters (excuse the oxymoron), villains and victims, then wipe them out with the keyboard. Take advantage of this unique ability and feel emboldened to vanquish your internal imposter. Eradicate the disease at its source. Your story awaits.

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Authors: Mary Lynn Cloghesy & Jason Schembri. Mary Lynn is the founder of the Leadership Literary Lab (https://leadershipliterarylab.com), and Jason is a long-term weight loss specialist (https://jasonschembri.coach) Together, they host a luxury writing retreat in the Canadian Rockies.