In bed with the imposter syndrome

It’s a Saturday night, just me and my imposter syndrome. What if the book I'm writing isn’t enough. What if it speaks to no one? What will they whisper of it, who might it wound?

Such is the bond with one’s art. To tread an artistic path, I cast aside drink, smoke, and fleeting loves. Now, I grapple with boredom over distraction. Solitude over the random embrace.

To endure imposter syndrome, I strike where it’s weakest, and I write on. This is how I defy the adversary that would rather see me squander my time than flourish in creativity.

The only solace in my craft lies in being true. I must face the aftermath of pouring my heart out. Though it leaves me raw and uncertain, the act of sharing something real brings a sense of fulfillment, a testament that I contribute meaning rather than noise.

So, here it is, my truth laid bare. Amidst the shame and the sensation of overexposure, I affirm my choices: I’ve abandoned dating, smoking, and drinking. Each day, I choose this and my imposter syndrome over the hollow connections of my past.