I must preface this post with total transparency:
I am a giant, stinking narcissist. I leave no space for humility. So when I say I doubt myself, or extensions of myself manifested in various forms of art, it is not because I believe I lack talent. I am hyper aware of where my strengths lay (and my weaknesses too, at that). It is not crippling self-doubt stemming from insecurity or some kind of backwards righteousness.
It is imposter syndrome.
I have more or less meticulously crafted my entire persona on literature and linguistics.
I distinctly remember writing ‘I am nothing if not a poet’ on the back of my hand with the dying breath of a red biro pen, a tangible affirmation with the remnants of bloodied ink on flesh rubbed red raw. I was 9, and my teacher (greetings, Mrs. Golightly) had just told me my writing was too intense for a little girl, and no, I could not present my poem on death and dying to the class.
So, the question remains:
Am I a poet?
Or am I nothing?
I made a deal with the Devil and it was one or the other. Not both, not neither, nor a space in between. It’s not his fault, you see. There are no unwritten axioms in the underworld. I didn’t know what I was asking for, and it probably wouldn’t have translated too well into Latin.
Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.
If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell.
Sympathy for the Devil is just a form of Stockholm syndrome drenched in bad-assery, and Stockholm syndrome is, perhaps, the sweet love-child of imposter syndrome and an old flame.
I never really wanted children much. Not a maternal bone in my body, if I’m honest, and transparency is the theme of this entry. Is it? I don’t know. That’s transparency, right? Admitting there is something I do not know?
Fraudulence. That’s a better word for it. I feel like a giant, stinking fraud. When pen is pressed to paper, the soft mush beneath my skull that is meant to emulate a brain is perhaps forced to inherently plagiarise things it has once read and loved. Enemies to lovers, kill your darlings, something like that.
Massacre your beloved. Torture an angel. Kill God, or something like that. Nietzsche approved.
Anyway, what I think I’m trying to say is I have not been updating this blog for two reasons.
1. is because of imposter syndrome. It is this thick, dark mass and I can feel it in my lungs when I inhale. It’s a weighted brick on my chest and tastes eerily like second-hand cigar smoke. It tends to stick around like that, like bees stick to honey, like I stick to writing poetry on the same theme incessantly until it loses all meaning. Something like that.
2. is because I am writing a book. The poetry and prose I write that is certified, bona fide, verified, is being cast directly upon the pages of this omnipotent book, like a spell, some kind of alchemy only an author could understand. I’m meant to try and engage an audience, promote my imposter syndrome, convince you in 100 words or less why you should exchange your valued earnings for aforementioned glorified imposter syndrome. But I’ll get to that part later, when the book becomes tangible, and when the imposter syndrome is no longer a thing, or at least subsides, even just a little.
I guess I’m saying sorry. And thank you. And here-is-perhaps-a-reward.
So please stick around, or something like that.
I’m very grateful you’re here.