I sat down New Year’s morning and banged out three blog posts and improved another one that was waiting in the queue. “This is pretty good,” I thought, “I wish I could keep up this pace.”

It was then that I realized I have imposter syndrome even with myself. Not content to bemoan that I will never be the next Steven King or Ray Bradbury, now I’m unhappy that I may never be as good or productive as me.

“That one piece I wrote in 2001 — that book I put out in 2018 — will I ever match tho...