I’ve got a ton on my mind these days. I have big questions looming in my life and yet it’s the tiny, mundane, everyday stuff that is eating at my mind and taking up all of my time. I keep composing blog posts in my head and then simultaneously trashing them for being too trite, or too self-pitying, or too ingenuously upbeat. What I am left with is, unfortunately, nothing.
I wanted to come and write a whole poor-me, poor-me post about how I just can’t win. But then I stopped by Freshly Pressed and read this http://frankrodickblog.com/2013/08/13/on-making-art-and-feeling-like-shit/. This particular passage stood out and I commented telling him that.
“I’ve seen lots of things hold back people who say they want to be artists. Mostly they’re waiting. For the right time and the right circumstances to get down to it. For—I’m suppressing my gag reflex here—inspiration. For the kids to be grown, or to have enough money to buy just the right tools or live in the right place, or for that soul-destroying fucker of a sibling or parent to get lost or better yet die and leave them alone. And very often they’re waiting for that pep talk, the honeyed message that hits all the right notes, the one that kicks them into feeling better about, well, being who they are. Then—then—they’ll get down to work and, yeah, set the world on fire.”
This is sadly me to a tee. For years I’ve let something, anything, stand in the way of becoming an artist. I point out all of the people who have more money and more time and more support. I lament the life I’ve been dealt and take comfort in the out that it gives me. Of course I can’t write, I have two kids and a job and no nanny. Of course I can’t write, no one reads my blog and I’ll never be freshly pressed and no one wants to give me a book deal. Of course I can’t write, I have dishes to do and meals and to cook and laundry to clean. Of course I can’t write, I have an anxiety disorder and I get all caught up in the what-ifs, and the have-nots, and the whoa-is-me.
This is not a new topic for me. I have written about it here before. Lately I have been consumed with the fact that, after years and years of writing, my blog has not taken off. I read other blogs and I think, “What am I doing wrong? What are they doing right?” I stop reading other blogs because I am blinded by jealousy and anger and self-pity and self-loathing.
And despite my best intentions this is turning into a poor-me post. I truly didn’t mean for this to happen. I am going to go and flog myself now and churn out 10 pages of prose as a penance. Well, maybe not. But I have been honest and that was my true goal of the evening. Sometimes, everyone needs a little self-pity. Sometimes, every artist needs a little outside encouragement. But I also needed to read those words and stop making excuses and stop waiting and stop being mired in all of my bullshit for a few minutes and maybe put a few words onto the screen before I go blaming everything and everyone else for my inertia.