Imposter Syndrome, You Old Devil
This is an inconvenient time to visit. And you didn’t even call ahead!
“Who do you think you are, Margaret Atwood?”
The sound of my typing pauses for a moment, brow arching at the screen. I lean back in my chair, turning to look at the tuxedo clad figure making himself at home on my futon. Lounging. As if he owns the place.
“I mean seriously,” the olive in his glass swirls as he makes an expansive gesture, taking in the whole of my decidedly messy bedroom-turned-office. “This cluttered nest is hardly the space for proper writing, is it?”
“…So, did you need something…or…?” I blink over the rim of my glasses at the lanky figure, giving that look that my father always gives people when they do something foolish. Through long practice I have mastered the art myself. It is truly scathing.
“Oh no, no, I’m quite alright.” He seems to have missed my subtle hint, taking a loud and obnoxious sip of his…martini? Maybe? I don’t know what goes into a martini but I know it shouldn’t smell like white-out and panic attacks. “But seriously, what do you think you’re doing?”
Turning back to my keyboard I take a moment to push my glasses back up my nose and return to my draft. The glare of the laptop leaves impressions of words in…
