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Even though I work hard at writing, every time I get a compliment or good review I feel it's undeserved. After all, I don't have credentials and I don't know what I'm doing. It's not like I wrote Infinite Jest or anything. I didn't even write a novel, just a memoir, which is basically a personal diary you make public. Unfortunately, my deception goes beyond writing to every facet of my life. There is no end to my deceit.
I'm a scam artist.
Merely pretending I'm confident. Desperately trying to cover up the unsavory truth. That I'm not as smart or talented as you might think I am. I am, however, exquisitely flawed. And underneath it all, I'm unworthy. Most of the time it seems to work too, because I'm good at what I do. I'll charm you, making you laugh to divert your attention. I might even push you away if you get too close to uncovering the truth. It's a cunning self preservation sham.
Because I'm an ignoble fake.
With a fear of both failure and success.