Some years ago, I was lucky enough invited to a gathering
of great and good people: artists and scientists, writers and discoverers of
things. And I felt that at any moment they would realise that I didn’t qualify
to be there, among these people who had really done things.
On my second or third night there, I was standing at the
back of the hall, while a musical entertainment happened, and I started talking
to a very nice, polite, elderly gentleman about several things, including our
shared first name. And then he pointed to the hall of people, and said words to
the effect of, “I just look at all these people, and I think, what the heck am
I doing here? They’ve made amazing things. I just went where I was sent.”
And I said, “Yes. But you were the first man on the moon.
I think that counts for something.”
And I felt a bit better. Because if Neil Armstrong felt
like an imposter, maybe everyone did. Maybe there weren’t any grown-ups, only
people who had worked hard and also got lucky and were slightly out of their
depth, all of us doing the best job we could, which is all we can really hope
for.
Neil Gaiman, 2017 blog entry