… because you have not written on a particular topic, in a particular style, in a particular market, or in a particular format?
I have a hunch even if I did get something published in TNY or with Penguin I’d still wonder if I was a fraud.
This chronic doubt plagues all creative pursuits.
You are not a real actor until you perform on Broadway. You are not a real musician until you get a contract with Sony. You are not a real film maker until you win an award at Sundance.
Is this part of that drive for mastery? Obsession with supremacy? That we will never settle?
Please share your thoughts. Brutal and all.