We recently connected with Alysa Levi-D’Ancona and have shared our conversation below.
Alysa, first a big thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts and insights with us today. I’m sure many of our readers will benefit from your wisdom, and one of the areas where we think your insight might be most helpful is related to imposter syndrome. Imposter syndrome is holding so many people back from reaching their true and highest potential and so we’d love to hear about your journey and how you overcame imposter syndrome.
I don’t know if I’ve ever truly overcome my imposter syndrome. Honestly, I’m not sure I ever want to. I think you need to keep a small element of it if you want to have a growth mindset. Maybe “overcome” isn’t even the right word. Imposter syndrome feels more like a spectrum, and I’ll always live somewhere on it. Because I care deeply about the work I put into the world and how I present myself as an artist, I’ll probably always wonder if I’m doing enough, or if I could be better. Some people might call that imposter syndrome; I call it reflection for betterment.
That said, when I first started writing, I felt incredibly insecure—and, truthfully, I still do sometimes. There are moments when I’m proud of something I’ve written, and then I attend a reading or read a piece that moves me to the core, and I question whether I’m missing the mark.
I started feeling more confident as a writer when I began studying more experimental work—pieces celebrated in certain communities but less conventional in form. This happened during my time at the University of Washington Bothell, where I had a revelation: art can be anything. For so long, I assumed writing had to follow certain rules—probably because that’s what we’re taught. Literature classes tend to focus on older works built around specific arcs or poetic traditions. Even a lot of contemporary writing falls into recognizable patterns or trends.
But writing, I realized, is like fashion. There will always be trends—styles everyone imitates, artists that “go viral.” At the end of the day, no one really cares what you put out there as long as it’s authentic. I could walk outside in a clown outfit, and if I owned it—if I wore it with intention—it would still reflect who I am. Writing is like that.
We’re all at different moments in our lives. Even though I might cringe at the book I wrote when I was twenty-seven, that work was honest for who I was at the time. Maybe it would still mean something to someone younger—an eighteen-year-old might read it and see themselves in it. So, I’ve learned there are no true limitations. My preferences will change, my audience will change, and my writing will evolve with me.
And because of that, there’s really no way to “fit the brief.” The doubt might never go away, but you can’t please everyone with your art. Have fun! Do work that matters to you.
Thanks for sharing that. So, before we get any further into our conversation, can you tell our readers a bit about yourself and what you’re working on?
This year, I’ve published some new works. My lyrical essay “If I Am Stardust” appeared in Persephone Literary this October; it explores the moment I became a mother. My hybrid prose poem “Strega Poetessa” was published in Blood Tree Literature in July, delving into layered aspects of my Italian, familial, Jewish, and creative identities. In December, my poem “When Desire Knocks” will go lively with Gently Mad Magazine. In January 2026, my short story “We Sell Dreams Here, After All” will appear in Hobart Pulp. Set in a late-’90s call center, the story follows two women navigating desire, faith, and illusion, ending on a surreal, haunting twist.
I’m also 80% through my novel, Mist Manifesto—about 50,000 words in. My current pitch for it is the following; When a malevolent force stops time in a marsh, grieving widower Mogyype glimpses his dead wife in the mist—and reality bends. Told in alternating perspectives between Mogyype and anonymous manifesto chapters, the narration blurs grief with menace, forcing readers to question whether Mogyype is a victim, a trickster, or the architect of his own undoing. The novel combines the atmospheric unease of Jeff VanderMeer’s Annihilation with the surreal intimacy of Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi. I began it after a personal reckoning with loss and identity—a time when storytelling became my only anchor.
If I had to describe my “brand,” it’s fiction-forward. I don’t write as much poetry or nonfiction as some writers do. My work lives in a genre my advisor at the University of Washington Bothell, Joe Milutis, helped me dub “burlesque fiction.” It’s a blend of the carnivalesque and the black widow archetype—stories where women lean into stereotypical roles (the seductress, the waitress, the quiet one) to subvert expectations and reclaim power, often without their oppressors realizing it until it’s too late.
Beyond that, I write across speculative and surrealist modes—slipstream, absurdism, magical realism, high and low fantasy. I love stories that sit on the fault line between belief and doubt. I’m fascinated by endings that leave readers questioning what’s real and what’s imagined, like in The OA, one of my favorite shows. I often explore mythology and belief systems: how stories shape what we choose to see as truth, comfort, or performance.
At the heart of everything I write is this question: Do we tell stories to make sense of reality, or to make reality bearable?
There is so much advice out there about all the different skills and qualities folks need to develop in order to succeed in today’s highly competitive environment and often it can feel overwhelming. So, if we had to break it down to just the three that matter most, which three skills or qualities would you focus on?
1. Read like every book is a master class. People always say that to become a great writer, you have to read. For a long time, I didn’t fully believe that—maybe out of arrogance or youthful stubbornness. I thought great writers simply wrote. And while that’s partly true, I’ve since realized that exposing yourself to the creative world you want to join is essential.
Now, I treat every good book as a private master class in what I don’t yet know how to do. Even when I’m reading so-called “junk food literature,” I ask myself: What’s working here? Why can’t I put this down? What itch is it scratching? I’ve let go of the idea that writers must only read highbrow work. Taste can (and should) be diverse. I read whatever challenges me, makes me laugh, or pulls me into its orbit. Every book—whether experimental, commercial, or messy—teaches me something new about how stories work.
2. Write, share, and let your work get torn apart.
For years, I was precious about my writing. I didn’t want anyone to see it until it was “perfect.” I rarely finished anything, because nothing ever felt ready. I also wasn’t getting feedback—and feedback, I’ve learned, is where you actually grow.
No matter how strong your instincts become, you’ll always have blind spots. Someone will critique your work eventually, even after a hundred people have already done so. It’s better to face that in a safe, intentional space than after publication, when you can’t do anything about your mistakes.
That’s why I joined a monthly critique group. We send each other pages, rip them apart, and then sit with the pieces to see what’s worth rebuilding. It’s made me accountable and humble, and it’s sharpened my ability to spot where my writing isn’t conveying what I mean. It’s also taught me that writing is iterative—what matters most isn’t protecting your work, but letting it evolve.
3. Take writing seriously—but play while you do it.
Amaranth Borsuk, my professor at the University of Washington Bothell had a core tenet of her class agreements: serious play. To me, that tenet means that if you’re not having fun while writing, no one’s going to have fun reading.
When I get stuck, I remind myself to play. Sometimes that means writing around a random phrase I overheard or an image I can’t shake. One of my favorite chapters in <i>Mist Manifesto</i>—my in-progress novel—started because I was fixated on tongues. I’d just been to the dentist, where they kept saying, “Move your tongue out of the way,” and it struck me how wild and uncontrollable tongues really are. That idle thought turned into a spiritual chapter about losing control of your façade in the face of unexpected loss and grief.
Writing through play doesn’t mean taking the craft lightly—it means taking curiosity seriously. If you loosen your grip on what writing should be, you start to uncover what it can be. You pull from your own life, from odd corners of experience, and the work becomes more alive.
Awesome, really appreciate you opening up with us today and before we close maybe you can share a book recommendation with us. Has there been a book that’s been impactful in your growth and development?
I’ve always been a storyteller—it’s just how my brain works. Even as a kid, people would say, “Okay, get to the point,” because I couldn’t help giving every story a beginning, middle, and end. I see whole narratives unfold before I even open my mouth. It’s both a blessing and a curse: I live in stories, but the world doesn’t always need the full one.
After my daughter was born, I struggled to find my creative rhythm again. My brain felt different—which, biologically, it was. At first, I mourned what I thought was the loss of my creative self. Then I read Rachel Yoder’s Nightbitch, and it changed how I understood that transformation. The book captures the identity shift, resentment, and raw beauty of motherhood so vividly that it feels like a rite of passage. I recommend it to every new mom I meet.
One of the ideas I love most from Nightbitch is that other people’s joy in your hardest seasons has nothing to do with you. Motherhood is lonely, but connection is possible if you seek it. No one knows what they’re doing anyway, so you might as well find people to talk to about it. That same idea applies to writing.
Another lesson is from Yoder is that we often sit in our misery because we don’t claim what’s ours. We assume we can’t do something, so we don’t even try. There’s a scene in Nightbitch where the protagonist imagines a fight with her husband about bedtime duties—how she’d have to defend her exhaustion and justify why he should care about his own child. But when she finally says, “I’m not doing this tonight. You’re putting him to bed,” he simply says, “Okay.” The fight was all in her head. That moment awoke something in me. It made me realize how often I’ve constructed similar narratives about my own limitations and worth.
That lesson reshaped how I saw both motherhood and writing. I refused to view my child as an obstacle to creativity and instead saw her as part of my world that enriches it. Writing wasn’t something I might “find time for”—it was something I had to make time for. It became a shared commitment within my family, not a solitary struggle. I don’t blame my daughter for the shifts in my creative life, and I don’t blame my husband either. They both want me to be fulfilled, because our lives are richer when I am. My struggle is my own—and so is my responsibility to honor it.
One of my closest friends, Bujinlkham (Buje) Erdenebaatar—a Mongolian poet and author—once told me she couldn’t write for two years after having her child. Hearing that reframed everything for me. When my daughter turned one, I set a goal: rebuild my writing practice slowly and deliberately. I was reassured when I realized I hadn’t lost my talent—only my speed.
I began writing again in spring 2025, and I haven’t stopped since.
Contact Info:
- Website: www.alysalevidancona.com
- Instagram: @alevidancona
- Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/alysa-levi-dancona/
Image Credits
Alysa Levi-D’Ancona or Wahaj Chaudhry.
