Fact: sometimes I feel like a fraud

Sometimes I wonder who I’m trying to convince when I call myself a “writer.” Whose approval am I after, anyway? Maybe my mother was right all those times that she’s told me that it’s pointless to be a writing major. Maybe I’m just wasting my time. Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do or how hard I try, I’ll never be good enough. I’ll never “make it.”

I look at the writers around me, the outstanding women that I am lucky enough to share a major and a classroom with, and I can’t help comparing myself to them. They all have such drive and focus on these fantastic goals that they are trying so hard to achieve, and I don’t doubt that every single one of them will be successful in their endeavors. And then I look at myself. Just the other day I was asked what I was planning to do after graduation, and I said, “I don’t know. Probably become a receptionist.”

Sometimes I think I want to become a publisher. Sometimes I want to be an editor. Sometimes I really want to review movies or book for Entertainment magazine. Always there’s this nagging feeling in the back of my head that says that I’ll have to become an escort to pay back my loans. And yes, this is a profession I have considered. I can’t dance so stripping is out, I would laugh as a phone sex operator, and it’s classier than a regular prostitute (and by classier, I mean, the men in question using the service are probably wealthier).

Am I the only one who feels this way?