#bllphotoaday
I admire each and every person with the courage to put pen to paper. People who play with words, build worlds, create people, communicate via these funny little symbols that turn into words and then into sentences and then into paragraphs and on and on into ideas, ideals, dreams, change.
Thank you to all the scribblers who change the world a vowel at a time.
The other day, S and were talking about a situation I’m involved in, and without thinking, I used some absurdly long, fairly obscure word to describe my behavior. She looked at me blankly for a second and then we both burst out laughing. Having a large vocabulary does not mean you always need to use it. Because, frankly, you sound like a toss-pot if you do.
But this links slightly to a strange feeling I’m having about my professional life right now.
There was a time when I felt like I was on top–I was around people who got me, I knew what I was talking about, and folks could come to me with questions that I felt I could answer in some kind of accurate fashion. We were on a par.
But now, I feel like a minnow surrounded by whales. And not just regular whales either. Prehistoric sized whales. With horns and wings and halos.
The horned whales of success
And this isn’t only at University. I mean, at University you’re bound to feel like that because you’re learning, right? So you’re not necessarily supposed to know everything. But I admit, I feel rather at a loss there too. “You haven’t heard of author X?” “How can you not have read author Y?” Or sitting there while the group around you laughs at some literary or philosophical reference you have no clue about. It’s daunting, and I admit, it feels somewhat defeating.
How will I ever be as smart as these people? How will I ever figure out how to move forward in the profession like the people around me have?
And I’m also surrounded by a rich, varied and lovely collection of writers and publishers. And the same thing happens: references to people or books I’m fully unaware of as the room titters away. Folks talking about issues author X faced and how they would deal with them. People who walk around the room blowing air kisses at one another’s cheeks and nattering about the old days as I stand against a wall because I know…no one. Do I introduce myself a bit? Sure. But even then I can see the person’s eyes looking past me as awkward pauses clearly indicate someone else would be pretend smooching his face and asking about his domestic details.
Am I really that uneducated? That unworldly? How do I possibly catch up when I don’t even know where to start? How do you enter a community of people in a professional environment when you’re just the unknown outsider? Will I ever become the respected go-to, or will I forever be the mediocre lackluster wall-leaner? At what point do you become less ‘upwardly bound professional’ and more ‘irritating boot-licker’? Why do I feel the need to be as good, to do as much, to be a horned and haloed whale too? Why do I feel inferior because I’m not?
At the moment, I feel like a pretender. I’ve built a facade with peeling paint and semi-transparent walls. Any minute, someone is going to figure out I’m just that dirty little city rat with delusions of being the noble stallion. I’m far, far outside my comfort zone, and wondering just how far I can go before realizing there’s no ground under me after all, and those watching were always shaking their heads, knowing I was never going to make it because I didn’t have any foundation under my dirty bare feet.
Song: Last to Know by Pink
Book: Difference and Repetition by Deleuze
It seems to me there is a greater spectrum allowed for male beauty than female.
Two lead male characters, rivals for a girl’s love. One skinny, broody, one buff and open. One geeky with glasses, one sporty in tight shirts. Both considered handsome, both paragons of maleness, etc.
But women seem to be all of a similar shape–thin, fragile, breakable. Hair and eye color change, but body shape, not so much.
Do you identify with any particular characters in books or movies? If so, why? If not, why not? And if/when you write characters, does it help if you identify with them, or do you need some separation?
Song: A Thousand Years by Christina Perri
Book: On Not Knowing Greek by Virginia Woolf.
So, on another blog (Growing Up) someone commented that she feels like her life has been put on ‘reset’ and she’s trying to find a way back to herself.
And this has me thinking about my own reset moments.
I asked in yet another blog (What Would You Say) what you would tell someone about yourself if you were to tell them the most important things. Where would you start?
(Stay with me, I’m going to jump around a bit)
First, I’m still struggling with the introduction bits. How do you tell someone your history, the things that have made you, you? How do you fill them in on the daily minutiae of things that created you? That kitten you saved once, that woman who yelled at you on the street, that addict that made you cry when she held your hand, the guy you helped push his car in a blizzard? How do you reduce these moments, these minuscule anecdotes that rocked your world into something someone who doesn’t fundamentally know you can understand?
I can look back and see several ‘reset’ moments. Times when I was on the path I thought I should be on, only to be shunted off it like raw egg off a spoon, onto another and totally unexpected path. Getting sick at 18 changed my world forever. Falling in love with a girl as a teenager changed my world forever. Meeting S changed my world forever.
But there are a billion little ‘resets’ too. Deciding to move to a new city. The sudden idea to send a story to a contest and see what happens. The first time I saw my name in a book. Graduating.
I’m in the middle of a reset right now, at this very moment. Family I haven’t seen in 30 years are trying to get to know me (now you see where things are tying together) and I’m trying to figure out how to tell them things that matter, what matters, what doesn’t, and learning in general how to communicate. And I’m learning to ask questions, which is actually really hard for me to do, as I tend to respect others privacy to the point they think I’m not interested.
I’ve also lost my little part time work, which has shunted me onto a new path and made me wonder: can I make a living as a writer type? Can I teach workshops, edit, freelance and actually bring in money?
The answer to this seems to be yes, and it’s both thrilling and scary as I attempt to understand the parameters of this new reset. And in getting to know myself through trying to explain myself to others, the reset becomes both murkier and clearer. I realize I still have insecurities, and I realize how far I’ve come, and in articulating where I want to go, I gain a deeper understanding of my own passions and flaws.
Have you had reset moments? How did you deal with them?
Book: The Sea, The Sea by Virginia Wolfe
Song: All Good Things by Nelly Furtado
Blog: Bold Strokes Author Fest, UK (we’ve got some great writers blogging over there right now. Check them out!)
I’m not really sure what to say.
My emotions, my mind, my memories are all ajumble.
I’m doubting memories long held as fact, I’m developing new curiosities.
I’m afraid.
And I’m elated.
I’m releasing old hurts and hoping for new futures, even as I wonder if I may be rejected.
Is it okay to let yourself hope? Is it okay to let the past go and open yourself up?
Only a few years ago I would have said no. No, it’s not okay, it’s foolish, it’s irresponsible.
But it’s not a few years ago. It’s today. And tomorrow. And whatever years I have left.
And the person I become, and the company I keep, are mine to choose.
If I’m brave enough.
Wish me luck.
Book: The Locket and the Flintlock by Rebecca S Buck
Song: I’m Coming Home by Daughtry.
Blog: A Stranger in this Place by Wendi Kali
I was thirteen.
She was probably thirty. Or at least late twenties. (When you’re that young, everyone looks ‘old.’)
And I had it bad.
Bad enough that my chubby, pubescent self got up every morning to go jogging through the Yosemite camp site with her, around the tents full of sleeping women at the Women’s festival.
Well, kind of. I had every intention of running with her. But I inevitably fell behind, given my already bad knees and my overweight body. (Obviously related, looking back…)
She went about her business, forty feet away in another tent. And my poor teenage heart sobbed itself dry every night. The next morning, my eyes red and puffy, I told my mom it was allergies.
The weird part?
It didn’t occur to me, not once, that having a crush on a woman was out of the ordinary.
Not once. Not a smidgen of ‘huh.’ And, when I got back to normal life, I went back to hetero dating without giving it any thought.
For a while.
When I was seventeen, a girl passed me a note in class. Honestly, I hadn’t noticed her before. This is the gist of it:
Dear ? (sorry, I don’t know your name)
I know you don’t know me, but I wanted to say I think you’re really beautiful. I mean, I bet you have a boyfriend. But I’ve seen you in class, and I wish you would go out with me. Please don’t tell anyone. I hope you don’t think I’m weird. I promise I won’t bother you. But I just wanted to let you know you’re really pretty and smart and I want to get to know you better. Please don’t say anything to anyone, and I hope I havent offended you.
Sincerely,
C.
I took it home and showed it to my mom:
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I think I’ll go out with her,” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
And that was that.
Song: I’m a Slave 4 You by Britney Spears
Book: Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaatje
Dear baby butch,
There I was, giving pieces of myself out all over the place, fake smile plastered on with a paycheck, placating, giving, laughing in all the appropriate places.
And then there you were, the last in your group. And my heart did that little stutter thing: not the kind of stutter that says strap it on and bring it over here, but the kind of stutter that says:
I see you.
Standing there with your perfect buzz cut, with your men’s t-shirt just tight enough, your jeans loose over your big black boots.
I see you.
But let me tell you what else I saw:
Your shoulders hunched, your eyes on the backs of other people’s heels. Taking up the space in that big ‘ol noisy foyer like a feather in a yard of chickens.
You disappeared into the box with your group, and it was only later, running down the hall to stop someone from pouring beer on someone else, I saw you again.
This time you were walking into the bathroom just as we ran past, and the guy in front of me, he didn’t see you. Not you, really. Just the back of your shaved head and men’s clothes staggering into the ladies loo during a drinking night out.
And he said, “hey, mate, that’s the ladies loo.”
And you turned, and I knew shame. And I grabbed his shirt and shoved him forward at the same time you said, in the softest feather voice I’ve heard from a woman with a leather studded belt, “I am a lady.”
I see you.
Your eyes didn’t meet his. Or mine, when I said, “I’m so sorry. Our apologies.” Your eyes stayed on my knees, or the carpet. Somewhere where you didn’t see people looking at you as less, as different, as something to be feared or hurt.
But you know what, baby butch? You also didn’t see me, seeing you. You didn’t see the proud femme wanting you to look up, to stare at him defiantly and make him look again. You didn’t see, because you’re afraid. And I get that.
But what are you missing by not seeing, baby butch? It’s not all about fear. There’s some goddamned beauty out there too. Claim it. Make it yours. Take up the space you want, need, deserve. Be proud of who you are and the way your represent it. You’re not just a feather. You’ve got a whole damn flock right there with you.
Look up. I see you.
Growing up, I wanted to be noticed.
I wanted to be the one doing good, the smartest, the brightest, the most helpful. I wanted to be the one people mentioned, thought about, nominated for stuff.
Looking back, I was probably pretty obnoxious. I was a know it all, making statements I couldn’t possibly back up, as though I knew what life was all about.
S and I have been having a conversation recently about work I’m doing. She suggested one day that I allow someone else to take the reins a bit.
My first reactions?
1. Why? Am I not good enough?
2. But it’s MY thing. Why should I give away MY thing?
On reflection, these two reactions tell me something about my adult self in relation to my child self:
I still want to be noticed.
I still want to be the one mentioned, talked about, noticed for being the worlds best *everything*.
It’s obviously an ugly, pink, my-little-pony-leftover piece of baggage from my childhood, and I’ve realized S is right. I need to let go a bit, sit back, let others get noticed. I don’t have to get credit, or lead everything. I can make everything work, pull it all together, from behind the curtain just as easily as in front of it.
I think it’s a balance for me, though. To sit back and not be noticed, but carry on with all I do, and not sit back and fade into the background and get sad and pitiful about it. Plenty of people make a difference in the world without people knowing who they are.
Right?
Song:Lightening by The Wanted.
Book: n/a. I’m just too tired.
Hey! That’s me!
Wow. How weird is it to see my face printed on a brochure being handed out in the city?
Let me tell you: it’s very weird. And it started me thinking:
Between my meetings with my dissertation team, where they speak to me like I know what the hell they’re talking about, (even though it’s my writing we’re discussing)
and
organizing/implementing/completing various book functions
and
doing all the other stuff I have to do during a given week/month/year
I have come to the sudden, mystifying and utterly unexpected conclusion:
I’m a grown up.
Cripes.
It happened so slowly, sneaking up behind me and crawling up my trouser leg, only to worm its way under my skin until all of a sudden,
BAM!
Grown. Up.
And I’m strangely okay with it. I am so wonderfully, amazingly grateful for this life I’m living. With all its ups and downs and ins and outs, its a damn good life.
And you, reader, are a lovely little cyber part of that. Do you know that?
Blogging lets me write, unfettered and free, about whatever random crap crosses my mind, and I love seeing those stats that tell me you’ve been here, you’ve had a look-see, even when you haven’t thrown down some wordage in response.
You rock. I hope you keep coming back, over and over again.
Happy Spring. What’s growing in your year?
Book: Beloved by Toni Morrison
Song: Maria by Ricky Martin
The house is pretty much clean.
The lamp timer is set.
The neighbors have the house keys.
I *think* I’ve printed/downloaded/emailed everything that needs to be printed/downloaded/emailed.
The fridge is emptied of all things that could grow furry legs and push open the fridge on their own. (Though something will still smell to high heaven when we get back, as always).
So, as I sit here waiting for my beige, watery porridge to cool down, I leave you with a pre-flight blog:
Q: When does the time come, if ever, that you stop feeling as though you’re blagging your way through, and you realize that you are, in fact, doing it?
*Note for my American readers, from Urban dictionary.com:
| blag: | ||
|
convince another person that all the stuff you just made up is in fact true and worthy.
caught in a tight spot, Harry blagged his way through the conversation and somehow got the job.
|
||
When do you feel like you can say, “I’m a writer” or “I’m an editor” without feeling like if that person digs, they’ll find you’re totally not “a writer” or an “editor.” That you might write, or you might edit, but you’re not actually one of those who actually do.
When do you feel like you’re authentically living as a creative person?
A. While showering, which is where I often have my most profound thoughts (okay, yeah, profound might be stretching it), I decided that for me, it’s a combination of two things:
1. I’ve written and edited something I’ve been paid for. Somehow, getting paid for it makes it official. And it puts my name in books and magazines and such, and somehow that makes it official too. (Maybe that should be another bullet point, but I’m combining for brevity. See? Editor.)
2. I believe it. I believe, whole heartedly, that it’s what I do. Because it’s what I love. That silly other stuff just pays a bill or two. But writing and editing is my passion, and its a passion I focus enormous amounts of time and attention on.
This means that on Thursday, when I’m sitting on that panel of professional writers, who have written books, (and several of them at that), reading my little story, I can be confident that I have a right to be there too. I hope they won’t be laughing behind their hands, wondering what the editor is doing reading. But I don’t think they will. Because they all started somewhere too.
How about you? When you tell people, “I’m a …” do you feel authentic doing it? Or do you feel like you should be saying something else? Sometimes we say we’re ‘an accountant’ when what we’re dying to say is, “I’m a stunt pilot for the Hollywood Small Person Association.”
Song: Rock the Cradle of Love by Billy Idol
Book: The Heroides by Ovid
