I love being a writer. I love when words pop into my head, words I’ve not heard in years or can’t recall ever hearing at all, and fall into just the right places when I’m in the midst of writing. I love hearing the voices of my characters swirl and somersault in my head, speaking as though they’re in the room with me, conversing over my shoulder, loud and clear. I love when my novel is checked out at the public library (I still can’t believe that people I don’t know are reading it, let alone believe I even have a published novel out in the diverse and wonderful book world for people to read at all). I love appearing at writers’ conferences, on author panels, podcasts, and book stores to talk books and writing, and to meet people like myself – book lovers who are happiest when reading and/or writing. Did you know that book store owners and their wonderful staff, and librarians as well, are an incredibly generous and happy group of people? I’ve had a long standing love affair with the public library, and now that I’ve met and gotten to know many of those who create the steam that runs the library engines, all I can say is wow! Librarians serve in a noble, imagination-steering, life-saving profession (at least as far as the mental welfare of this patron is concerned – my local library was my haven). I’ve yet to meet a librarian I didn’t respect and like, and the same goes for book store owners who are not selling to earn $$$$, but are in the business primarily for the love of books.

The writing world is the one where I feel my breath, my mind, my very soul soar. Recently, I was one of four, first-time author panelists at the Santa Barbara Writers’ Conference. I sat on the stage and looked out at the audience of 150 or so, and my heart nearly burst with gratitude. When a question by an audience member was directed at me, I nearly erupted in happy tears. Fortunately, I have honed my self control skills, so my secret internal outbursts are known to no one but me, and now you, my dear reader.

To take a little time, no matter what our jobs or daily duties, to spend on activities we love, on our passions, and on what truly gives us a sense of contentment, is what we should strive to accomplish. The love we pour into what we enjoy doing, can’t help but stream out into all areas of our own lives, as well as into the lives of those with whom we have contact. A simple way to spread happiness.

I once engaged in a heated exchange with myself about an annoying person with whom I’d had excess contact. A man suddenly appeared a few feet away from me, raptly listening to my solo conversation. In my defense, I was out walking in dense fog (the kind where, if I dropped my cell phone, I’d have to get down on all fours and feel around for it).

At first, I was mortified. Had the eavesdropper heard the part where I wanted to tie one end of a rope to a chair to which the irritant was handcuffed, and tie the other end to the bumper of a four-wheel drive truck that I would then drive over jagged edged boulders at high speeds? I was subjected to some heavy squinting and blinking by the man as he vainly searched for the party with whom I was having said conversation. Rather than defend my jabbering, I smiled, waved, and moved on quickly, letting him jump to his own conclusions about my sanity.

After this incident, I kept my talking out loud to a minimum or at least within the confines of my car or home where such behavior is not totally unexpected. I enjoy solo talk – as a writer, it helps me remember things and work out challenges. I discovered that for some people, it helps ease loneliness and creates a sense of community.

I came across a woman in a grocery store who not only talked to herself out loud, but did it so others had to be involved as well.

“Don’t the pears look good?” “Should I buy some cereal?” “What time is it?” she yelled to no one in particular.

I heard a nearby man answer, “Uh, it’s 4:10.” Which made me wonder, “Are they together?” (to myself, not aloud).

They were not together, and she proceeded in this manner for the duration of her shopping.

“Where’s the bread?” she inquired, looking around her.

I stepped forward. “Aisle four, I think.”

Does such talk cross the line into mental unbalance? I noticed a man on a street corner, alone, on a hot day, talking up a storm of nonsense. Heat-stroke or insanity? I’d place my bet on the latter. But the woman in the market was not insane. She managed a fairly normal conversation with the cashier. She just hadn’t mastered the art of not talking to herself loudly in public places. Something I learned after being busted and possibly mistaken for a raving lunatic.

It’s not just writers, loners, and the insane that talk to themselves. Historical figures known for their genius did so as well. Albert Einstein engaged in solo talk. It helped him figure out things and rid himself of stumbling blocks. A Time magazine article stated jabbering to oneself can help retain focus and improve perception. In my case, it helped siphon off stress, reason through a difficult situation, and perhaps provide fodder for my next book. Should you feel the urge to engage in a soliloquy, go right ahead. You’ll be in good company. Oh, but do stay off street corners lest a case of mistaken identity ensue.

Imposter Syndrome didn’t start with my becoming a published author. It started long before and plagues me to this day, thankfully to a lesser extent. But I sometimes still wonder if I am what I am, professionally speaking.

When I took the California Bar Exam – the final step needed to practice law – doubt nipped me the whole way. At my heels, my elbows, the ears and all other exposed body parts. In fact, on the second day of the three day exam, I nearly left, certain I’d never pass in this lifetime. The passage rate that year was 32%. It didn’t help matters that, during the breaks, I overheard other takers discuss subjects I’d entirely missed on the test. With one foot dangling out the door, I forced myself to return and completed the exam. And passed. Unbelievable, but true. Yet, once in a while, I still wonder if there was a mistake in my score. How ridiculous is that?

CalTech describes “imposter syndrome”: “Impostor syndrome can be defined as a collection of feelings of inadequacy that persist even in face of information that indicates that the opposite is true. It is experienced internally as chronic self-doubt, and feelings of intellectual fraudulence.”

Does this syndrome plague me as a new author? (Insert deep breaths). I’d like to say not one bit. I’d like to, but I can’t. But it only happens at the starting gate. It rears its wobbly head when I appear in front of an audience on an author panel. Especially when I’m the first panel member to speak. Which brings me to the story of Secretariat, the champion race-horse. Although he lost his maiden race after another horse collided with him, he won his second by six lengths. Slow to start, it took a while for Secretariat to reach his stride. This marked his signature for the rest of his career. Starting behind, in the blink of an eye, he’d lead the pack. And he continued to lengthen his lead with every step. Now, I certainly am no leader of any pack, but I do know I’m slow to start. I scan the audience members, asking myself why any one would want to read my book or listen to me speak. What do I have to say worth hearing?

It’s been said that our thoughts will inevitably bring either failure or success — according to which thought is the strongest. So to keep strong thoughts about my current status as a happily published author, I carry my book with me. It is real. I can smell and touch and see it. I did actually untangle 90,000+ words and over 100 rewrites to create something tangible that other people have read. People I don’t know. I’m lovin’ every moment of authorship. If that doesn’t light a fire under me, or anyone suffering Imposter Syndrome, nothing else will. We authors are the real deal.