I’ve done it. I’ve had a few stories accepted by editors who like them. I’ve been asked to do two readings this year. Things are going well. So why do I feel like a fraud?
I can’t quite put my finger on why, but I do. Perhaps because now I have to keep going, prove that this wasn’t a blip, that I can continue to do this, and do it better each time. At least, I hope I can do it better. But there’s this gnawing sense of doubt. And I know I musn’t listen, musn’t let it win. But… what if this was all a fluke? What if, in fact, the readers don’t like my words and the images they conjure? What if I can’t do it again? Will they see through me? Am I a real writer, or am I just making it up as I go along?
But that, of course, is what a writer does. Which is sort of comforting. I’ll just have to keep going, and find out along the way.