Who Do I Think I Am?

I’m an imposter.  A fake.  A phony.  A phony fake. I call myself a writer, but I’m really not (which, come to think of it, makes me a liar, too).

This thought comforts me when I can’t think of a blasted thing to write.  It means I haven’t failed.  It alleviates the pressure to perform, which begs the question, where is the pressure coming from?  I don’t have deadlines.  There’s no one pacing impatiently outside my door, waiting for me to finish my latest tome.  No one’s livelihood is dependent upon whether I write today or not.

So, where the devil is all this pressure coming from?  Why do I feel so antsy?  And so guilty?

Truth is, or at least part of it is, I don’t want to give up again.  I have a tendency to stop running when my side gets that sharp stitch in it, or when the track starts up hill, or when the rain comes, or it gets windy or cold.  I quit.  I run out of gas.  I run out of stamina, endurance, faith.

Is that’s what’s happening here?  Am I losing faith in myself? Or just in the imaginary idea that writing is what I’m supposed to be doing?  Writing has certainly given me a purpose…sort of.  It’s given me something to work toward; get better at, and maybe that’s the lesson here.  Maybe this whole writing dream isn’t supposed to end where I think it should.  Maybe I’ll never be published, and maybe it doesn’t matter.

I’ve been told that people need to set goals if they are ever going to be “successful,” a relative term, in my opinion.  Up to now, I haven’t set any…no, not one, at least not on purpose.  I may have set a few (and accomplished a few) purely by accident.  So, why is it so important to set one now?  Well, I suppose it’s because even Paul had a finish line he kept his eye on.

I know we all have a finish line.  I just don’t know what or where mine is.  It’s too far away to see anything but fuzz and fog.  Perhaps the secret in goal-setting is to have many finish lines, closer in, and closer together.

And just maybe the value lies in the travel, not necessarily the destination.  Maybe all that matters is what I learn during the process.  How I grow from it.  What if it’s just the process?

Okay – no more guilt.  But, what about antsy?  Why am I so antsy?

Because I have things to say. I just have to figure what and how to say them.  If only for myself.

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About Cindy Thrasher

What about me? Good question. As soon as I figure it out, I'll let you know. In the meantime, let's just say I exist. In Texas. With a husband. In a house. With two dogs.

Posted on May 19, 2011, in Thinking it Through and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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