Feeling like a Fraud

Facing down a block. I’ve signed up for the Art and Soul retreat in Portland in October, either encouraged or egged on by my best friend, and I waver between pinch-me excitement and anxiety that I’ll be in a room full of real artists and be seen as some sort of poseur, dreadful paralyzing fear of having nothing to say. Which has me wondering about the idea of “writer’s block” which implies something there, stopping stuff from coming out, stuff that is also there, which is not the same as the terrifying blankness, the search for anything more meaningful to say than that I get frustrated with routine sameness of emptying the dishwasher and emptying the dishwasher and pick-up after pick-up from school and, a life measured out in...

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