Potato. Pahtato.

Impostor Syndrome. Procrastination. Potato. Potahto.

I am working on my piece for Get Lit tonight and I have a serious case of Impostor Syndrome. I do not feel up to the topic that has been bubbling around inside me, let alone the level of excellence reading before and after me. I feel like the fluff in the weave. Cat fur on the tuxedo. Missionary at the Power Exchange …

I write a new piece for this sort of thing twice a month, and usually love the challenge, but I am currently crippled by the old foes that bellow in my inner ear: Who wants to hear what you have to say about this? NOBODY. Who fucjing cares about your mayonnaise thoughts and whiny little feelings?!? NO. BODY. Sit down before you hurt yourself.

But I said I’d do it, and there’s this big-girl / grown-ass woman inside me that has a taste for risk and is quite okay with failing if it grows her into a stronger storyteller. She sits patiently behind the old foes, waiting and watching for their tantrum of fear and self-loathing to wear itself out and go take a nap.

So yeah, fellow writers. I push you to stretch yourselves and I guffaw at your inner foes until you rise above the crap that keeps you from being and doing, and I’m a pain in your collective ass because I live it, too. The thrill of feeling the fear but doing it anyway, it’s exquisite.

And while Impostor Syndrome is about being an expert but feeling like a fraud, I can look at this post and safely say my procrastination skills are extraordinarily well developed; I’m an expert. See: I just burned off some critical writing time writing this instead of writing that.

Don’t be jelly; it took years to achieve this level. You, too, can avoid anything that matters to you–if you try hard enough.

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Jokes and eye rolling at myself aside, as soon as I got this self-conscious blah blah blah out of my head and onto the page, the space was clear to write my piece. Click here to read it, especially if you have more pressing things to do.

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