Even This Title is Not As Good

Let me start by saying that this will not be as good as my last entry. Oh gosh, it feels good to say that. Now I can exhale, sink down into the slumped position that I prefer, and begin forming coherent(ish) thoughts again.

Last time I posted to this forum I was a trifle terrified, as I am with all things that I care even the tiniest bit about in this world. I thought that maybe no one would read my words, or that people would read them and think they were drivel, or that only my mom would read them and I would get one comment, saying “Great job, sweetie! You’re so talented. Let’s catch up soon. I’ll call you tomorrow,” because moms are nothing if not wonderful encouragers who don’t differentiate between public and private modes of communication. (Love you, ma.) In the end, I decided that none of those fates would actually kill me, and would in fact be a small price to pay for the satisfaction that comes from self-expression. So, with some hesitation, I posted my rather personal, maybe a little long-winded essay about heartache and walked away from the computer before my anxieties got the best of me and told me to “Take it down this instant,” before  adding, “You fool!” as anxieties are wont to do because they are farts. 

The one thing I did not anticipate from my post was an immediate outpouring of encouragement and praise from friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers alike. I got an unprecedented (for me) amount of “likes,” comments, and shares. Several times in the past few weeks, I have been introduced to a new person, a friend of a friend, and they have said to me, “Oh, I read your blog. It’s really good,” and then I have turned bright red, gone cross-eyed, and let out a Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel laugh, because my brain could not compute this astounding revelation. 

I am still amazed and humbled at the response. I want to say a heartfelt “Thank You” to everyone who read, shared, took the time to comment, talked to me in person, or even just clicked on the link and got through the first three lines before deciding that it was too long and retreating to watch a video of a 2-week-old clouded leopard kitten licking a zookeeper’s hand (It’s just as cute as it sounds. Go look it up). I am so grateful for all of it. It has been everything that I love most about writing and about reading what others have written - the connection that is made, the magic moment when you stumble upon something that makes you say, “Me too! I am not alone in the world.” Because it’s true, you are not alone, but as humans we need to be reminded of it almost constantly. So, thank you everyone, truly, for that reminder.

Leave it to me though to find a downside to something that is objectively wonderful. The next several times I sat down to write, there was a tick in my brain that said, “That was freaking cool! You should make it happen every time.” Now, since I don’t go around experiencing heart-searing breakups every month (thank God), I had to wrack my brain for what I could write that would live up to all these new fangled expectations. Maybe I could be the inspirational Christian, getting all real with my struggles and doubts then wrapping up every entry with "but then God (dot dot dot) and now everything is better!" Maybe I could be the brash, snarky comedian - edgy and feminist and unafraid, skewering the ills of society and bringing levity to all of life’s faults and foibles. Or maybe I could be high-minded and literary, writing prose so beautiful and obscure that it would bring people unexpectedly to tears, touching on a truth beyond rational thought, hidden deep within our fragile souls. I would love to do all of those things, though I knew I probably couldn’t pull off that last one because it would involve not making Simpsons references or using the word “fart” anymore. Then I realized what I was really trying to do. I was sitting there in front of my computer, writing nothing, banging my head against a wall, asking myself, “How can I make people think that I’m awesome all the time?!”

As soon as that question creeps into your psyche, consciously or unconsciously, it’s a death knell to everything that is good about art. All the honesty, vulnerability, originality, risk, and connection gets polished and preened, swept up and trimmed around the edges until you have just another vaguely pleasant, utterly forgettable, and ultimately soulless object in the world. Like any painting that has ever been done of a dolphin. 

This is where I am actually grateful for my profound laziness. I do not now, nor have I ever had the energy to pluck and preen and sweep and mold myself into something that everyone will like, tempting as it may be at times. Frankly, I don’t even have the energy to remove old cups of coffee from my bedroom before they start growing five shades of turquoise mold. The one thing I would like to expend my limited energy on is making good work. I would like nothing more than for every word I write to be vibrant, honest, bold, and perfectly crafted after hours of painstaking labor. Of course, none of that will ever happen with the specters of “Will they like me?” and "Is it perfect?" hovering around. It’s tough to vanquish those questions, especially for recovering-perfectionist, people-pleasing scaredy cats like me.

The only way I know how to conquer the questions is just to walk right through them. Make stuff that's bad. Take a mulligan if you have to. Accept praise when it comes, but don't ever let yourself expect or depend on it. Admit that you're not awesome. It feels great. It means that you get to keep doing what you love.