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| On days when imposter syndrome seems unstoppable, just curling up in Jennifer Lopez's fur coat from Hustlers seems extra enticing |
Every day, it lunges at my brain. There's no warning. No floorboards creaking to provide one glimmer of the imminent attack. No heavy breathing just behind my back to suggest, "he's right behind me, isn't he?" Instead, my psyche is suddenly overwhelmed by a mighty familiar intruder, though that recognizability doesn't dilute this terrifying experience. It's my old pal imposter syndrome, once again here to creep into my brain and transform every one of my thoughts into "you're not doing good enough/did you see what that other writer's doing?/why can't you be different?"
No matter how many items I check off one day's to-do list, no matter how many years of therapy I attend, no matter how many coping tools I memorize, imposter syndrome still lurks. It's even looming over my brain as I type these words down, telling me, "Lisa, nobody's going to want to read this."
Nary a day goes by without some form of imposter syndrome flashing across my mind. However, at the start of the fall movie festival season (when studios launch their big award season contenders at lavish festivals), that imposter syndrome especially becomes pervasive for me as a writer. Ever since I was a kid scouring ComingSoon, SlashFilm, Entertainment Weekly, and similar outlets, autumn events like the Toronto International Film Festival, Venice International Film Festival, and Telluride Film Festival were momentous occasions. New eras of the year's cinema scene had begun. Not only that, but my favorite writers would regularly attend these events and report back with vital dispatches about what worked, what didn't work, and everything in between at these festivals.
Various Entertainment Weekly writers going to Venice's cinema extravaganza solidified them in my mind as the pinnacle of pop culture writers. To attend these events was to be a REAL film critic. Young Lisa Laman clutched dreams of pursuing an occupation like Lisa Schwarzbaum or Roger Ebert. She also wondered if, one day, she too would be at TIFF or similar shindigs. Cut to years later, and I'm privileged enough to make writing my full-time gig. I do what I love (typing out thoughts about film and television) as a means of paying rent. I'm incredibly lucky to have reached this status quo and to be surrounded by instrumental people (like ScarleTeen editor Heather Corinna, GALECA founder John Griffiths, or former Dallas Observer editor Eva Raggio, among countless others) who got me here.
Yet, like I said earlier, imposter syndrome cares not for the achievements you've accomplished nor the therapeutic mechanisms you've trained in. It festers, like a sharp pain in your foot refusing to vanish or a repellent odor from some mysterious point of origin in your fridge. Around late August or early September, coverage of events like the Venice Film Festival from major publications often instills pangs of imposter syndrome in me. "Why aren't YOU there?" my brain will think to myself. "I guess you're not a real critic."
My not attending these effusive celebrations is suddenly a referendum on my abilities as a writer. "Everyone whose there is a real film critic," my imposter syndrome-consumed brain will say, "Not fakes like you."
Combining those thoughts with my exhaustion over the work and energy I do put into my writing is a potent combo. It can make things feel pointless, like all my value lies in watching movies at a specific festival rather than my actual artistic contributions or the ways I treat others. In recent years, I've gotten better about not letting these imposter syndrome thoughts beckon me down a catastrophizing spiral. Thank you to my therapist on that front. However, that hasn't always been the case, and I'm still prone to getting lost in a labyrinth of imposter syndrome-inspired worst-case scenarios. That includes when my insecurities over what I do and don't attend as a film critic flare up. In years past, this mindset has sometimes led to me thinking my "failings" as a writer reflected me also "failing" as a person.
Last night, I had pangs of this specific autumn movie festival-inspired imposter syndrome suddenly creep up. Given that I've been focused on moving the last two weeks and have sometimes had to go multiple days without watching a movie as a result, such insecurities had extra personal material to work with in 2026. "Look at all those people in Venice/Toronto/Telluride watching so many movies a day while you haven't logged anything on Letterboxd in three days!" my brain might say. These statements seem silly typing them out now (things in our brains tend to be much less ominous when we bring them out into the real world), but encased in my anxiety-vulnerable mind, they can, in the moment, seem like devastating indictments of my value.
In my calmer, protein waffle-aided Friday morning mindset right now, though, I want to reassure myself and anyone else suffering from imposter syndrome (however it manifests) reading this that you're enough. True, I probably won't ever make it to the Venice International Film Festival. That's not the worst thing in the world, not by a long shot. Not only do all the films screening there eventually make it to North Texas, but my life isn't materially worse by not being there. People are making good memories and bonding with friends at this Italy-set endeavor. I can do the same in early September, watching movies with pals at the local Spacy microcinema or doing lesbian bar karaoke.
Better yet, other people going to Venice isn't a reflection of my value as a person. Honestly, it's not about me at all. Dating back to my public school days (where I was paranoid about if and how other kids could "tell" I was autistic), I've had a survival instinct ingrained into my head that things are, by default, about me. If someone's frustrated, I must've done something wrong. If some piece of technology is on the fritz, then I must be the cause. This is why I'm always saying "I'm sorry" even if I'm just standing around existing. But like I said, it's not about me, and that includes other people going to autumn fall festivals.
Instead of filtering the existence of all fall film festival coverage as an indictment on me not doing enough, I'm retreating to my original mindset of celebrating both other people going and the art they produce via these events. Rachel Handler's coverage of events like the 2023 Venice Film Festival for outlets like Vulture, for instance, is always a must-read. The existence of these events isn't inherently a sign that I'm doing anything wrong or inferior. It can instead be a chance to relish and support the talents of other writers (like Siddhant Adlakha or Hannah Strong) who're there. Instead of seeing these film festivals as an opportunity for further inward, individualistic indictments, I'm viewing them as chances for communal support.
Plus, my personal experiences suggest I might get more overwhelmed than enthralled attending one of these festivals. I've carved countless joyous memories at both of my Austin Film Festival experiences, for instance. However, being somebody who doesn't drive and (thanks to autism) is prone to being overwhelmed by drastic schedule changes or sensory overstimulation, there were tremendously stressful segments of those experiences as well. Navigating expensive Lyft prices, being locked out of an AirBnB at midnight, suddenly being shunted to a deafeningly loud Austin street full of noisy clubs...it's not all as cool as watching masterpieces like No Other Choice and Hamnet in sold-out auditoriums.
My mind circa. early September will tell me being in Venice is the "only" way to solidify myself as a "real" film critic. However, would me being overwhelmed in an unfamiliar place really help anyone, including myself or the prospective publications I was writing for? Perhaps bouncing around these film festivals in-person isn't something I'm capable of...and that's fine! The talented people who cover these autumn film festivals can clearly roll with the hubbub more easily, and that's awesome.
Writing all of this out while bubbly Tyler, the Creator/Chappell Roan/Nina Simone songs play in my ear is one thing. In a week's time, though, when the evening rolls around, and I see some headline involving the Toronto International Film Festival, that imposter syndrome will creep in. Suddenly, my brain will be full once more of all the places I'm not occupying, the tasks I haven't accomplished, the Word documents I haven't finished. All will be used as evidence to declare, without a shadow of a doubt, that I'm a failure who's far behind everyone else in my career.
But you know what? I think I'm enough. It's hard to even type that out, given how difficult I find it to sing my praises (I detest the idea of coming off as "cocky"). But looking around the freshly decorated apartment I just moved into and at all the writing I accomplished this week, I do believe I'm doing enough. All those fall film festivals aren't a signal of me failing in my field. They're instead exciting displays of promising-sounding movies on the horizon and a chance to support other people in this vital career path.
Whatever circumstances inform your own version of imposter syndrome, dear reader, I hope you also know you're enough. Imposter syndrome can be inescapable. However, reminders of our value can also be pervasive, if we just know where and how to look.
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