A bit of rambling thoughts.

Dear Reader,

I have been having some trouble with a manuscript, again. I'm not going to shove it into a proverbial drawer and forget about it, but I am mildly vexed with the thing. At the same time, I am realizing the problem is not the manuscript. The problem is how I am viewing things. Mostly myself, to be honest.

I have a pretty severe case of imposter syndrome. I feel like I'm a fraud because I am not selling books and I'm not out there hustling my work to make money. I feel like I'm a fraud because I spend most days struggling with therapy writing and doing things to try to make my brain work properly instead of engaging in the Great Work. The running joke when I was a kid was that I was going to write the next great american novel. The joke wasn't funny to me. I didn't care if it was the next great american novel, but the idea of writing as my purpose in life was very strong.

I spend less time "writing" than I did when I was in my twenties. I feel guilty about that. I pulled off college, full time work, and working on a novel all at the same time. I feel like I should be able to churn out that level of effort now. And I feel like a fraud because I can't, because I'm disabled and I have two children who keep me busy. I have times where I feel like I'm walking a high wire act with out a net and have a bout of emotional vertigo. That's when I feel like a fraud.

Who am I to by writing about home economics? I'm just a housewife, not a professional. Who am I to be writing erotica? I've only had three lovers in my life.  Who am I to be writing recipes? I'm no award winning chef.

The list of it all goes on and on. So, I get into this state where I am all a quiver with anxiety and my mind is racing with this back and forth between what I described above and a very indignant part of me that says with enough research, creativity, and time, I can write damn near anything on any topic.

But, tonight, I feel like a fraud and the castigating side of the argument is louder. I've talked about this stuff in therapy. It all boils down to the sheer volume of emotional abuse that I had to put up with in the past. All of the cutting remarks and backhanded "critiques" that were made just churned up with my anxiety into a hell broth for my brain. Throw in a bit of seasonal affective disorder on top of it, I basically sit and stew with anxiety for hours until I'm exhausted or angry, if not both.

It's really frustrating. Because I know that scumbag brain is lying to me. I can point out all the damn lies line for line. But my anxiety goes "But what if...?" and I'm off to the races. I'm going to start writing down counter arguments for this litany of how I'm not qualified for anything. I have plenty of notebooks. And when scumbag brain gets going, I'm going to recite the counter arguments kinda like medieval people recited prayers against temptation when things got hard. Who knows if it will help or not.