The sound of thunderous applause in the silence of an empty arena.

It’s like that for most authors I think or wish to envisage. A story is written! A tale is told! There’s cheering, an outpouring of adulation, roses are thrown on the stage along with undergarments and wads of money. Only I look around to find the seats empty, the door’s locked, and a single spotlight casting a white pale upon a wooden stool where rests a story told. I look away for I am an imposter standing on the stage that giants past have trod. Yet, wasn’t it I who told that tale? Was it not I producing this paved road of invention brick by wondrous brick?

I turn. Conviction strengthening my heart. I may have walked the path of inspiration laid by titans but it is my road that I am paving. The lights suddenly shine bright. The seats are filled with not quite masses of adoring readers but the doors are open and there are those peeking in.

Ah, imposter syndrome. My terrible, horrible, close friend. I believe it is finally time to lay you down for an eternal sleep. Go haunt someone else. I’m done with you.