Imposter syndrome
I seem to be writing a lot about my monsters right now, but I guess that's sort of fitting in October.
“As a writer,” I try to say As such a ridiculous imposter, my monster whispers. “I want to keep writing. That’s all.” Just kidding, fool. You want much more. “I want to be read. I want to read poems.” Except for the years when you hid from poems and from writing and tried to believe it was because of your children. “Yes, I used to think I would write between diapers, like Katherine Paterson once wrote—” And you could have, and you should have, and sometimes you did, but mostly you didn’t. Coward. “As a writer—” I stop to clear my throat, waiting. “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 six kids. Who cares. “As an image-bearer—” Ohhh, 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.”
Wow. This is relatable.