Because it's easier for me to assume that everyone is better than me at whatever I attempt, I start to look for the trick, the reason that I edged someone else out for a prize. Which means when normal human behavior dictates that I act grateful and happy, I'm quiet and cynical, contemplating where the catch is and how it's not that good of a prize. (See also cynical as hell).
As I, and my husband, crack into the behemoth manuscript struggling to get it to something of a publishable state, a leviathan lurking beneath the surface threatens to steal away my barely beating mojo. I'm an imposter.
This had nothing to do with imposter syndrome, I just thought it was cute. Also, that's a Golden not a Lab. Totally missed the pun mark there.
Imposter syndrome is when someone feels they're about to be found out as a fraud then have to go on the lam with an adopted french daughter. Much virtual ink has been spilled about women that feel they don't fit in, can't possibly meet the standards set by society for their job, and how someone will call them on it.
It's a bit like a slow acid, nibbling away at self confidence until all that's left is a pile of goo where a person used to be. And I've got it pretty bad. As I read over words that don't flow perfectly, descriptions that fall flat, and dialogue that tumbles off a cliff I keep thinking "How in the hell did anyone like this? There has to be a huge mistake." I wish I had time to freak out over it, hide in my den and lick some mental wounds but there isn't any.
In order for the books to make it to New York for a something something, they have to be edited and formatted by March 15th. A little over a month to do what I'd normally spend 2-3 months doing. Brain, you really need to freak out after March. How about we pencil in all of April? It'll probably be stormy and raining then anyway. A perfect month for mumbling into the void.
For now there are grammar demons to slay.
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