Or should it be called “other people’s paranoia is stickier than gum in your hair”?
There is so much around us that can shake our belief in ourselves and in our writing. Watching others being braced for choosing different occupation to start with. Today again. How to find courage to actually continue on the journey you chose if the only person interested continuing is right now sitting here, staring at the screen and wondering if it’s not yet next thing to put aside?
Poetry. I have never understood it, never gotten the point or seen the beauty of it. My mind is cross when I think of it and though I know how to breathe through one or how to understand it, I’ve never felt the chill of reading or writing one. Poetry is for other great geniuses.
Yet every time someone new comes to town and they find out that friends of mine deal with poetry, I feel more and more reluctant to come out that I write stories and don’t meddle with poetry. Because that’s what writer should do, right? Write poetry?
Am I going crazy?
They are smart people and honestly, they really are. But my smartness goes missing and my mouth shuts when I’m suddenly glanced at as some mediocre idiot by new acquaintances before they go on brazing how smart my poet friends are.
They are right – who cares about how much research you buried in your last piece or who cares that you just single handedly rolled through entire volume on bugs just to find one that would fit your purpose of the story? They never find out of these things. They just say you’re smartass if you mention that “um… that glue goes through your plastic as if it was paper”, because you have no idea where you know this. The monkey is back and has hidden the key to the library in my head.
I have studied writing deeply for two years. I started learning this, because I wanted more and I felt that I reached to point where I couldn’t get pass unless I took out textbooks and studied how this was done. I can’t live without it and I really feel that this is something I could work on with, something that goes through my heart.
Since I got the first book and didn’t deny that I was actually learning it, I’ve become a joke. Who learns how to write? Come on! It shows lack of talent! Years on I’m starting to feel the same way. What talent is there if I grave for teaching, stepping over the milestone and get rid of the cliché in my stories? If I was talented, I’d know how to do it by mere sniff.
I want to hide those books now. I want to hide that I’m learning to write or that I write at all. I’m not proud anymore that I’m putting so much effort in my work and it takes so slow process to bring results. They don’t even have to introduce people what they do and they are geniuses and smart.
Perhaps I’d just once would like to hear that I’m genius too, smart and talented, educated and wise. I feel I’m rushing myself for nothing. Why go through this? Is it stealing my life from something better? What would be better for me?
It just is undermining, nothing more.