The typewriter was lost, but the writer was found.
About to start a new year, and in many ways a new life, I should have been over the moon. I’d acquired a book contract far more swiftly than I’d imagined was possible, and I’d managed to arrange a newly flexible schedule in which I could write to my heart’s content.
But my heart was feeling far from content. For a couple of months, I’d been the miserable searcher in an interminable game of hide-and-seek with my creative muse. Everyone else had colds and flu that winter, but I was suffering from something far nastier: a full-blown case of imposter syndrome. I’d sold the publisher a bill of goods, pulled the wool over my agent’s eyes. I couldn’t do this.