Yesterday, a friend stopped by to pick up her boys. I’d been watching her tykes while she finished out her school-year duties. When she showed up, shoes stretched from one end of my seven-foot rug to the other. This line-up translated into eleven kids.
She joked about my revolving door and what that must cost in food (ten plates adorned our dinner table last night), laundry (thirteen beach towels were washed) and time cleaning (the broom is used only second to the toilet bowl scrubber). She ended by saying I was a good mom.
Yet, some days I don’t feel like I resemble a passable rendition of a mom. Period. Good doesn’t even enter my mind. Surviving, yes. Tired, sure. But good?
Somehow, I’ve earned my Mom Imposter Certificate. I’ve managed to fool the masses.
There are days when I feel the same about being a writer. At times, I have it all under control. I write. Edit. Learn. Hone. Read. Plot. Network. I’m a veritable whirlwind of Writerhood.
Other days I’m nothing more than a Writing Imposter Extraordinaire. Oh yeah, I can fool anyone into believing I’m actually a writer. Everyone but myself.
My keyboard time consists of idle fingers or poorly constructed sentences. I edit, only to refuse to save the changes I’ve made. I’m hit with a new fact about the writing biz that makes me feel like a newbie penning her first word.
A writer, I most definitely am not.
And yet, when someone asks, I smile at the shoes lined up along the rug of my life and feel satisfied. For even an imposter has a job to do. If we work hard enough at showing the world we are good moms and real writers, eventually we become what we practice. Even if we’re tired and our muses are on vacation.
Are you a writer? If so, how do you define this in the context of your life? Is a byline your threshold for success or is the act of writing enough? Are you an imposter? If so, why do you feel this way, and what will it take for you to believe that you are, indeed, more than what you give yourself credit for?
Imposters want to know!
Words from the Woods 