Imposter Syndrome?

I write. A lot.

Books. Blog posts. Rants that’ll probably earn me a side-eye from at least three relatives and a stranger in the grocery store.

And yet… the second I say, “I’m a writer,” my brain’s like, “Aww, that’s cute!”

Ridiculous.

Because there are literal books with my name on them. They exist. I can hold them, flip the pages, sniff them if that’s my thing — whatever.

But imposter syndrome? Oh, it’s committed to the bit.

It’s just over there in the corner with its popcorn, whispering:

“You didn’t go to school for this.”

“You use AI sometimes.”

“You just write about your own life.”

Here’s the deal: I’m a one-woman production team.

Writing, editing, designing — the whole damn circus. I use tools because I want things done now, not three weeks from now. Outsourcing? Cute idea. But I move faster when I do it myself.

Most days I’m juggling a to-do list that could stun an ox, running on caffeine and spite, and wondering when my brain’s going to get the memo.

But memo or not? I’m a writer.

And imposters don’t work this damn hard.