Impostor syndrome redux
I posted this poem a little less than a year ago, but as I seem to battle impostor syndrome every Monday (if not more often), I'm sharing it again. Let's not raise a glass to the monster in our heads.
“As a writer,” I try to say. As such a ridiculous impostor, my monster hisses. “I want to keep writing. That’s all.” Don't equivocate. You want much more. “I want to be read. I want to read poems.” Except for the years when you hid from poetry and from writing and tried to believe it was because of your children. “Yes, I used to think I would write between diapers, as Katherine Paterson once said—” And you could have, and you should have, and sometimes you did, but mostly you didn’t. Coward. “As a writer—” I stop to brace my shaking voice. “As a poet—” Yeah, right. It’s so cute that you think that. “As a woman—” Playing that card, are we? “As a wife—” Oh boy. You really want to claim that title? “As a mother—” Yes, yes, you have kids. Big whoop. “As an image-bearer—” Ooohhh, go with that. We all know that Christians are more despised than ever and carry the stench of people who just don’t care— “—AS A PERSON WHO JUST WANTS TO WRITE just let me, please. Just let me write.”
I know these demons well. I take some comfort in the fact that we all have them. This piece hits.
Let me say it here, though it won’t change their mind: You are a writer. You are a poet. You are worthy. I love reading your poems. And I know I’m not alone. Actually, you help me feel less alone!
Me too. We just keep writing anyway. (And tell the B to shut up.) (Politely cuz we're Christan ladies.)
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