So... You write something. You pressume it might be awfully pompous, so you want to show it to someone. You know, so they can evaluate its pretentiousness levels. Then you realize that most of your friends are rather pompous themselves... and some of your most unassuming friends will not tolerate any proximity to your levels of self-absorption without being completely and suddenly dehydrated by your lofty prose. So you want to show it to your scientific friends in order to, at least, get some inconsistencies and imprecisions ironed out. You guessed it: the presumptuous manuscripts malaise is a significant bunch of scientific language. But youre scared they will take you for a buffoon. Plus, none of them is in sight. So you consume yourself in the bubbling and thick broth of your own impostor syndrome and, what shouldve been a joyous occassion -the completion of a first chapter- reeks of anxiety. You havent accomplished anything yet. Youre a dilettante and you shouldve not wasted whatever little spare time you had on that stinky little pipe dream project of yours So you conclude that self-deprecation is better than hubris. Youre not done, not at all. Theres an entire book to write, you lazy cow! You will not boast about minor progress, not without some self-deprecation. Congratulations but youre not there yet, youre not even out of your house and the cabs been waiting for half an hour. Im glad but Im a bit scared.
Posted on: Fri, 10 Oct 2014 21:43:07 +0000
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