How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.

[truepenny]

Imposter Syndrome, for those of you fortunate enough never to have encountered it, is the pervasive and ineradicable feeling of being a fake, a poseur, of having gotten as far as you have in your chosen profession through a mixture of unwarranted good luck, brass-faced nerve, and the mysterious across-the-board lapse in critical accumen of those in authority (in my case, editors, agents, publishers, and readers, but you can fill in the blank there as it suits you).

I hate it.

I hate it when it afflicts my friends, and I hate it even more--being in some respects as self-centered as a cat--when it afflicts me.

Today, it is afflicting me in spades.

It's the page-proofs that are doing it, and I know that. There's something about seeing a story, of any length, set up with a real typeface and margins and page numbers and everything, that is completely alienating. On the one hand, it's very cool, but on the other hand, it makes the air raid sirens go off at top volume: Jesus Louise you don't mean to tell me you thought this was fit to print!! Were you on CRACK??!!! And all the little insecurities and anxieties and inferiorities, instead of heading to their designated shelters, go rushing about screaming at the top of their fool lungs, waving their hands and mobbing each other in a panic.

And the racket makes it very hard to get any work done.

Comments

[sienamystic.livejournal.com]

Heeeeello. Yep, yep, yep. I went through grad school *convinced* that any minute now, somebody would walk into the room, point dramatically at me, and go, "You! Out of the university, Fakey Fakerton!" And the more people who tried to reassure me, the more scared I got!

The fact that lo these many years later, I have yet to turn in my thesis doesn't help. Having Imposter Syndrome plus a terminal lack of focus sucks.