Smultronstället

Every once in a while, people suspect me of being a fraud. One day, Joe, the creative director at the agency where I worked for a spell, approached me and asked suspiciously, “Dmitry, admit it, you found this game code somewhere, right? Didn’t write it yourself?” I smirked at him then. Misha also gave me away once, saying, “Dima, it’s impossible for one person to know so much.” And he’d look at me conspiratorially, with a wink, “Fess up.” At first, I was taken aback; I didn’t expect this from a friend. But my indignation quickly turned to joy, the doubt of a colleague being the highest form of recognition. Someone else tried to call me out for faking it, though I forget who: “There’s no such position as “senior art-director”, Shalnov.” Of course, there isn’t.

Though, to be fair, impostor syndrome has been chasing me throughout my life. Every new skill opens up even more space of ignorance, making me feel limited and infinitely mediocre*. I regularly dream of exams. My shameful nightmare.

* — what I truly am, but nobody should ever find out ^__^