Imposter Syndrome? Or just a tardy muse?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm just an imposter in this wide world of poetry; I know I like to read it, but I also love well-written fiction and certain types of nonfiction and memoir. I am drawn to write poetry, partly because I fail miserably at writing fiction; my characters are flat, and I get bored with the narrative really quickly. Dialogue is really hard to write, too. That all said, how do I claim the title, "Poet" with any degree of certainty? 

Yes, I have over 50 poems published, but not many of those publications are "household name" journals (are ANY poetry journals really familiar, outside this echo chamber of poets?). I have a chapbook I'm sending out, but I don't know if it's any good. I know what my other neophyte-level poetry pals think, but will it find a publisher? My New England roots run deep: probably not. I will not pursue self-publication because I want the validation of having someone else think it's worth paper and two covers. 

I have poetry-dreams, nothing too grand, but I'd love to be nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Or Best of the Net. Again, it's about external validation. But is that why people write? My mentors all agree on this point, that it is not for the accolades, but more because we are compelled/impelled by something deep inside our psyche to write. I have something to say about X.

It's a struggle, this desire for validation and the real knowledge that it's not why I write. But still, I am working really hard at honing craft, and that pushes me along. I've met and become friends with a good number of Poets Who Have Published Books. (I'm such a fangirl groupie, or so it feels sometimes.) I've learned a lot along the way these last 20 years that I've been intentionally putting pen to paper, clicking along on computer keys, or scratching lines on scrap paper with colored pencils--whatever is at hand when the muse comes to visit. 

National Poetry Month starts on Saturday, and I will likely be working on some drafts, reading a manuscript I've been asked to write a review for, and reading some poets' work that blows my doors off. I'll also be attending the Easter Egg Hunt with my SIL and grand-daughter in the morning. It's a balancing act, isn't it, between daily living and the internal rambling along of my reluctant and often tardy muse? 

Take care,

C