They call it Imposter Syndrome, but I think there’s gotta be another name for another variation on this. I think sometimes we don’t doubt ourselves, as much as we just forget to think of ourselves, at all. I am guilty of this, often, and I don’t know whether it is unique to me, to my place on the Autism Spectrum, or if it’s a trait universally shared and equally pondered about. I forget to think of myself, I don’t really look into the mirror, I don’t read my own work after it has left my brainpan and found its way onto the page, and as such, I don’t really know where I fall or qualify on the great grand scale of Artistry. Critically, I know I’m considered a bit of a joke, an “InstaPoet” labeled by those highfalutin smartiepants that have fancy degrees and use Triple Bonus Scrabble words in their everyday vernacular, (see that one there fancy folks, vernacular!) and I know that I’m fine with that, but I do wonder from all of you who are not these people: Am I an artist? Is the art I make worthy of being called it?
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