197 days since my last correspondence
Well, if it isn't the consequences of my own self-consciousness.
I have been ~planning to plan~ to return to myself — my writer self — for what feels like ages now. I can joke this is just my Virgo moon talking or whatever excuse sounds either convincing or convenient, but I have felt like the human embodiment of ‘all talk, no walk’ for far too long when it comes to my own creative practice.
Every time I find myself magnetically drawn to the book aisle at Target (sorry, it’s my closest grocery store, shit happens) or my travels have brought me to an actual bookstore, I think about the sheer volume of it all. There are so many books out there, and so many more being written, signed, published, printed, marketed, distributed and devoured on a routine basis. So many books and things, happening all the time. I think about what I personally could add to the conversation, about what feels deserving to be on a shelf or bound by the page or adapted for a screen of any size or published in or for any medium really. And then admittedly I come up short.
It’s frustrating to think how the machine that doesn’t slow or stop is simply working exactly as it was designed to. I think of those churning out #content on the regular. I think of those who have to feed an algorithm to pay their bills and those who are working insane (unpaid) hours to attempt to get to that level, as well as those who just want to try to stand out amongst the collective noise and maybe get some sort of satisfaction or recognition back in return. In that environment and in these times, how do you determine what is of value or what belongs or what creative idea is worthy of pursuing?
I can’t pinpoint exactly when or why it happened to me, but somewhere throughout the past few years, throughout all of the mass death, sickness, poverty, racism, conspiracy, inflation, layoffs, literal war and whatever late, late stage of the capitalistic drain we’re circling, I’ve felt bad or guilty or undeserving of taking up a little space. On the internet, in the industry and sometimes even in my own home. It’s like this idea that whatever I have to say isn’t as compelling or as important or worthy as the next person’s experience has consumed my entire being. It’s felt as though whatever it is rattling around in my head has already been said, already been experienced and already been forgotten about.
It almost feels like the excuse to not sit down and write or create has become a real, tangible creature; one that has grown furry little legs and glaring eyes and sits in the corner and watches me, no matter what room I am in. It’s a darkness that is all-consuming and convinces you to wade deeper into it, but also becomes so comical once you address it and call it out by name. Once you recognize it as imposter syndrome or depression or laziness, its power weakens.
Ultimately, it’s been so much easier to give a corporate job all of my creative energy than to preserve some of that for myself. While I am proud of the work I’ve done in the professional realm in recent years, none of that work belongs to me or is a perfectly authentic representation of my identity or self-expression. I think that lowkey sucks, honestly. Is my legacy going to be that I always showed up, met deadlines, worked well with others and got it done? Is that enough?
After two decades of actively being a writer (both personally and professionally), I don’t want to feel like this is it. That I’ve done the thing. I want to trust that there is more and there is always going to be more. Infinite possibilities, infinite timelines.
If we’ve spoken on a Real Talk Level™ in recent months, it’s likely we’ve talked about how I finally feel that much closer to being on the other side of my existential crisis. But, I’m still not sure I know exactly what that means or where it will lead. We’re getting there, I want to believe; word to Fox Mulder. So here we are. Once again, I am reintroducing myself. Emerging from the cocoon. Ready to allow myself to be imperfect, to allow myself time to practice. To work through whatever it is I need to, or better yet, want to. I know I have so much left inside me that I want to discover, document and dare to let be.
As I’ve learned and am learning, all we (I) need to do is truly surrender to the reality that creative expression is never going to be perfect, because perfect is an empty page. And that’s a boring tragedy right there.