Yesterday I sent a bio to the gallery where I will be giving a talk next week. The organiser emailed back that it was a bit short, and sent me the other participants' bios. I realised I forgot to prefix my name with "Dr." I suppose it wasn't unlikely, my PhD days seem so far ago, and of course I don't need the title in the office or the bar. Reading my co-participants' accomplishments, I felt a shiver of imposter syndrome: I spend my days in emails with clients and solicitors and my evenings with punters, and not a thought on writing or ideas except in what feel like stolen moments, random gaps in my schedule I—and others—would otherwise fill up with tasks. My notes, and whatever I've gleaned from reading, are hard-won but fragmentary. Anyways, I spent all of Thursday making clay molds for puppetry that will feature in the town's Samhain parade. It took my mind off my funk, and my good mood continued into the evening.




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