Impostor (Optional: Syndrome)

by Melody Marr

Osama Madlom

Does anyone else ever think that to create art the artist must be beautiful? Not a supermodel, but certainly not a chubby housewife from Arkansas.

Does anyone else ever wish they could draw? Because there is safety in the abstract and words are just too personal.

Does anyone else ever think that art has to come from art? A candlelit loft apartment in Paris La Vie Boehme. — not a college ruled notebook as I sit in my bathtub because two weeks ago I had another surgery and my stomach hurts and there’s a pile of laundry a pink rubber duck and soap I bought on sale from Walmart sitting next to me Not so much a still life as a stunted one.

Interlude: Anxiety

Does anyone else ever think their thoughts are unoriginal? I heard a song today I’m writing to its beat. Am I inspired? Or impostor? Or worse out of synonyms.

Does anyone else ever think a symbol (cymbal) is too trite writing feels like it pulls from me something essential every word falls not but breaks away like the pen writes, not with ink, but with lifeblood. But that’s either an emo song or some Harry Potter bullshit.

Denouement: (in)conclusion

Probably, Others do. Think, I mean. These things. And some of those people may be artists. And, maybe, me?

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Melody Marr is in her early thirties. She has a husband, a daughter, and two terribly behaved dogs. She was healthy until she wasn't. Melody has always had too many words in her head and now she's trying to use them to explore identity and disability, acceptance and belonging.