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.

Every other month or so, I pick a messy kitchen drawer to organize. Okay, maybe it’s every six months to a year or when it becomes so crammed that letters and extra wall calendars sneak out the back end and relocate into lower level drawers that offer more breathing space.

Don’t get me wrong. These are not cutlery drawers or those housing kitchen towels or spices. These are the ones specifically set aside for loose AA batteries, notes to myself covering all subjects from reminding Son to return a library book to writing down snippets of great lines I’ve snatched from eighties’ sitcoms, as well as renegade paper clips, rubber bands and anything else without a proper resting place. I believe these items may be of future use, however indeterminate. I shove them in the drawer so I can think about them later.

Why am I sharing this with you? To embarrass myself into stopping this useless little habit of cramming nonsensical items into drawers that otherwise could appear tidy.

I am partial to clutter. I know it. I pile my clutter knee-high, hoping these little towers of chaos will give off the impression of neat, carefully planned disorder.

I believe these commonplace habits can easily be broken, provided there’s a willing participant. A few tips for unharnessing unruly habits:

1.Acknowledge the habit, realizing that if it didn’t exist, you’d be one step closer to taking control over your life;

2.Convince yourself that change is good. Ask: after the clutter is gone, will I honestly miss it? Or will I appreciate the fact that spiders and earwigs no longer have a multitude of hiding places inside my home?

3.Visualize what your life would be like without the habit. For instance, I could open a drawer and actually find a pen when I needed to write down a phone number instead of dashing about searching for a long lost writing utensil. And when guests come over and open a drawer in hopes of finding a notepad, they actually will. They shouldn’t fear misplacing a hand when searching;

4.Join a support group or elicit the support of loved ones. Surround yourself by others who’ve successfully broken habits; and

5.Pay attention. Know your triggers. Most of our habits come about when we’re not thinking clearly. I reach for the delectable chocolate chip walnut cookies when my mind is cloudy or otherwise preoccupied. And I don’t mean one or two morsels. A muddled mind also triggers my robotic penchant for picking up random objects and dropping them in random drawers. I lost a pair of diamond earrings that way.

Join me in choosing awareness, organized living spaces, and eliminating the unnecessary in our lives. This will free us up to focus on what we authors love to do: write.

I was recently rejected after an interview. Being of a resilient nature, I did what any semi-intelligent reject would do: changed my identity. But not without permission, of course.

It started when I’d filled out a four-page online adoption questionnaire. Canine adoption, that is, from a dog rescue group. I had one dog already; I decided it was time for another as our Aussie Shepherd, Rio, seemed lonely.

The adoption questions started out as standard fare, such as: “Do you have other pets?” and “Will you take your new dog for walks?”

But then they started getting a tad tricky with questions like, “Where will your new dog sleep?”

I answered that Rio sleeps wherever he likes. Sometimes inside, sometimes outdoors. The same will hold true for our new addition. This resulted in my immediate rejection.

Unbeknownst to me, dogs from this rescue organization were not permitted to sleep outside, meaning anywhere not contained within the four walls of what was deemed human living quarters. I sent an e-mail explaining that we leave it up to Rio to decide where to sleep. Sometimes he prefers to nestle down in my son’s bedroom and other times, he prefers to sleep outside. I received a response, asking me to define “outside.”

I explained, “Under the stars on the cool grass ‘neath the sweet-scented Magnolia tree, or in his fashionable, igloo style dog house.”

I received no further communication. I tried again, “If my new canine friend prefers to sleep inside, she is more than welcome.” “My bed is large and cozy.” “We live on fully fenced land, perfect for frolicking animals.” “I’m a good dog owner, I am!”

I was blackballed by the Dog Rescue Organization. I called my mother.

“Do you want to adopt a dog?” I asked.

“Not really.”

“Do you mind if I borrow your name and address and pretend to be you adopting a dog?”

“Go right ahead, dear.”

Using my mother’s email address, I again filled out a questionnaire. This time I was successful because nowhere did I use the frowned upon “O” word. I was granted a personal interview.

Please do not think for a moment that I have a penchant for impersonating my mother. I merely felt I had been grossly misunderstood, and Mom was the only one who would allow me to borrow her identity, no strings attached. Once at Rescue Headquarters, I was going to fess up.

When Rio and I arrived, (his presence was required so he could have a say in picking his new buddy), a nice, exhausted looking young man named Kevin helped us. He never asked my name, merely wanting to know if I’d completed the online questionnaire. Then he picked out a candidate to take for a walk with Rio and me. I said,

“I’m not sure if I’d make a good dog parent. There are things I need to explain.”

Kevin responded, “I can tell by the way you treat Rio that you’ll be very good.”

Four dogs later, we hadn’t found the right fit. I had to reject the first one since the enthusiastic creature excelled in knocking me flat on my back; the next one gave Rio the evil eye; Rio displayed an exceptional loathing for the third one; and the last pooch kept mistaking Kevin for a fire hydrant.

When Kevin went inside to change his pants, another representative came over to me. She narrowed her eyes and said, “I’ve been watching you.”

“Then…you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Should I leave?”

“You wait right there!” She went back into the shelter.

They’d figured it out. They were probably in a group huddle, deciding what to do with me. Rio looked at me as if to say, “Let’s make a run for it.” But I couldn’t. I had to state my case and face the consequences.

The woman returned. At the end of her leash was a very sweet, young German Shepherd. Rio made no objections. I said,

“About the application…”

“I’m glad you reminded me. Will you take two dogs?”

Just another reminder of the power of persistence. You’ll be glad to know I never borrowed my mom’s identity again. And we found a wonderful new canine friend.