Thursdays' Child
So much wisdom, so little time. Here I am, putting my very own nose to the
grindstone – determined that before I got to bed this very day, I will write my
1000 words - because it has been strongly suggested that we should write – to simply
make the effort. I’m not exactly sure
who this “we” is, except that it feels like the words are spoken directly to me;
to the heart of me I thought I had shut the door on forever. With some measure of regret, I have fought this beast off before, a battle that did not seem too hard to win. Rising feelings were wrestled to stillness, the artistic self that had lost its way was found and shoved into a box for someone else to discover in another lifetime, another
era. I was hesitant to put my
heart on display.
I feel like there is a plethora of people who want to write,
who do write; people who will publish their work, and who may have more to say,
or at least have more confidence in their “voice”. I write this day, this evening, because I have
heard that the more one writes the more possible it is that something of value
will be produced. The thought recurs of
other writers. My breathing gets a little shallower at the thought of being
judged by my peers in word-crafting. By contrast, it is much easier to accept the praise of those who judge us gently, lovingly. With effort, I fill my lungs with a deep, cleansing breath.
Maybe you have noticed that when you buy a car, suddenly you notice all the cars just like it on the roadway – and you think
they must have been there before, but you didn’t notice them very much until
now. Now there are so many and some of
those cars are shining a little brighter than yours is right now. Some
are gleaming, as a matter of fact, while yours has seen the splashy side of a
mud-bog for a lane a few more weeks than you plan to confess.
Okay, let’s just say then that I am writing because I want
to get better at my craft. The question
arises with some persistence, am I good enough?
The answer is no, I am not good enough, yet fully aware (from various
supportive relatives, high-achieving friends and a daily dose of motivational
sayings) that is a factor that I should not let stop me from trying to improve. Just maybe there’s enough to work with that I
can use to advance in my craft; enough to get paid to do it eventually. Now there’s a thought with some hope attached.
Or should I focus on taking pictures? Am I good enough? The answer to that again, is of course not! Which am I better at? More importantly, what is marketable, and how do I know? Do I have a future
taking pictures and if so, I need to start taking myself seriously as a
photographer, Up until now, I have hesitated even using the word photographer in reference to myself. Photographer. Photographer.
I listen to the sound of it; try to apply it to me, feel ambivalent.
If I don’t sound very convincing to myself, what makes me think I ready to meet
my critics? By the way, where and when
did all this self-doubt arise? Is the criticism
of others harder to take because it echoes the secret thoughts of my own inner
critic?
Feeling vulnerable actually
means that I feel somewhat suspicious about the safety of presenting my work.
Beyond the prospect of being judged, will others really be harder on me than I have been on myself? My own self-doubt (also known as my inner critic) has been a vicious foe, enough to keep me from producing very much already, so once I get past that stage this time, I am sure there’s probably something I can learn from or about those who don’t particularly like my work.
New endeavors open up daunting possibilities; among
them that someone would be inspired to live their own dream - as I have
been inspired by the talent of others, doubtless someone more talented than I. Will it fire up my admiration or some emotion
less altruistic? Important questions that I need to answer: Am I content with what I produce as an artist? What is my story? How am I going to tell it? I know what work is. I raised three children and a husband, managed rental property, helped run a plumbing business. I understand the time and energy commitment of business. I would be very foolish if I didn't consider carefully this aspect of producing and presenting my work.
What about really spending some money and time on equipment,
on software, on classes? Because there is a commitment of funds and especially
an investment of time, I feel like it is important to know if I’m really that
in love with the work I’m considering.
Is this really following my heart?
Setting aside the basic premise that I am not especially gifted
mechanically, would it not be easier to become a plumber? I’m not head over heels in love with the idea
of becoming a plumber, but everyone needs basic repairs. Whether they are
willing to pay for it or not, it is something that would be useful to me and
others. So, obviously, artsy types of work need some justification,
in my mind. Oh, who am I kidding? I am so aware that there are others more
creative, that my skills are fairly basic.
What could be scarier than not being good enough?
Bubbling to the surface, insistent and haunting, arises an
old question. Do I have something in my
head that interests people enough to profit by it? If I get it out there where it can be
examined, where my work can finally be seen and judged, the words spoken that
can’t be withdrawn may be, at the very least, misunderstood, twisted, misconstrued...and mainly, un-certified. This, my heart! What if it completely falls flat? How much weight do I give to what is not said - my silent, seemingly neutral watchers. What if my production is not very marketable? Ah,
but what if it is? And if so, just
what, out of millions of thoughts every day, can be distilled down to the VIP: very
important point. Do I want to make the focus
of my time developing basic skills that I have?
It’s a true commitment to choose a direction – easier by far to go about
my usual routine, coping, not changing.
Change is peculiar – the adjustment phase of figuring out how much time
is available for pursuing new endeavors chafes; people are smart and aren’t
really going to suffer fools gladly - I need to produce something of value and
do it regularly. If that is not a
daunting thought I don’t know what is.
The humor of life – the sadness, the joy to be expressed
---all wrapped up in vinegar and brown paper because, like Jack and Jill, I
slipped up and broke my crown somewhere along the way – could those wounds that
are common to mankind be useful in making us feel more connected, somehow? Then there’s the exposure of myself – baring
the heart I have long practice at keeping meticulously
protected. Besides, if it were so that
the crown was broken, it seems like there should be one certain event; I would
have a specific moment when that happened, but it was actually more of a
process.
Like Alice in Wonderland slipping
through a rabbit hole and arriving in another complex and interesting world
full of impressions. My mind would be buzzing. My crown, if I possessed one, would be askew. Straightening it as I rose to the occasion like Alice, I would be more aware.
I would see things. Like White
Rabbits, hasty and consulting frequently with large pocket watches, constantly fretting over being
late. Or the Queen of Hearts: arrogant, self-important, a little ugly both
inside and out. And then, I think, I am
there already. I see those things now. I wonder why it took me so long to verbalize
these perceptions. Because, like the
White Rabbit, I was a bit distracted – time was both of the essence and a
burden – what with laundry to do, and all, you know.
I decided to count my words and it was only around 600. Four hundred more words, and I have said all I
have to say. So maybe you want to go on
this journey with me. Maybe we will find
out as we go what our stuffing is like; what we are made of. What we have that is real, what is from a
place deep inside us of true passion.
Am I too old, too…tired…too what?
Is this just another excuse to set aside the dream?
By the way, what is the dream, anyway? Have we addressed that? I think specifically it is to write a book. Something people would want to read; where my
thoughts are considered interesting enough to resonate with the deep base notes of
another human being, to be validated for my life experience by someone else deciding
to spend their precious time considering my perspective.
There I go again, thinking scary thoughts. I’m reminded of the night my little sister
and I decided to climb to the top of the barn and spend the night in the
cupola. Carefully, we hauled several loads up stuff
up the ladders, across the planks, and made our little nests with sleeping bags
and flashlights at the highest level. Darkness fell. Who
knows what all we had with us besides sleeping bags, pillows, p.j.’s and some
snacks, but I know it took more than one trip up into the highest rafters to
settle in. At daybreak we re-appeared to use the bathroom. We found Mom waiting. She hardly slept a wink all night,
so worried that we would sleepwalk or roll off the platform in the night and
fall to our deaths. Such a thought had
never occurred to us. Dad did not lose
any sleep that night. A lifelong
proximity may have been his secret sleep aid.
And then I find this – the words have been waiting to be
said and there’s something almost poignant about that fact. I tremble, not just because of sleeping on a small platform practically in mid-air next to a
75 foot drop off sans guardrail, but because writing and photography seem less
valid than a “real” job. Because doing
something I like to do might be cheating death somehow.
The amazing thing is that we learn through withholding our
real self, that there’s more inside, even if it’s a different “more” than we
had before. Our inner artist, what is
left of it, struggles to get out. It fights
for daylight, pressing to the surface like a swimmer out of air. Suddenly this part of us needs to breathe,
must breathe, and if at all possible, will breathe. Part of us also prefers “some privacy here,
please, thank you very much”.
The voices we hear are persistent. We become aware that we really can’t have it
both ways. If misery loves company,
could it be that success does also? Is
it possible that misery and success co-exist? Voices call, speak decisively. Some are eager that our voices join their rising tones,
they compel us. Some have heard all they want to hear already and are unimpressed; the formidable critics row. Are we joining misery,
success, or both, and will this really change us or change something for the
better? Is the value of what we gain
more than the privacy we lose? What will we regret, either way? Perhaps we
can be persuaded to fully rise to the occasion, even to a victory shout, to
destiny.
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