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Showing posts from August, 2023
  The writer's companion. Imposter syndrome. Calling oneself a writer sounds terribly pretentious, don’t you think? Maybe it’s because I think I’m not very good at it. Maybe it’s because I’m not very good at it. It could be due to my complete and utter lack of tutoring or training, or it could be a man thing. It might even be a working-class thing, or maybe it’s just a writer thing. I wrote in school despite being no scholar. I was never likely to be accused of being - what’s the word I’m looking for? – academic. I struggled in maths, terrified of the teacher in case she dragged me up to the front of the class and dared me to twitch my nose again. I was terrible at science, hated geography, and told the teacher that history was old-fashioned. I thought it was funny. When old Mr Whitham, the maths teacher, told us if we wanted to learn, sit at the front and those who didn’t sit at the back and play cards, guess where I sat. That’s right, in the English class. I’d sit quietly wri