I Didn't 'Get It' From 'Them'

Whether it's a good or bad trait or skill, there's always something off-putting about the assumption that it has to come from someone. The inclination to be artistic, an addict, compassionate--even if there is a possibility there's some genetic thread, there is just as easily a repellent, the possibility that it could have been killed off rather than nurtured, passing rather than innate.

It's one of the many ways intelligent thoughts tend to kill off individuality. Some twins love to look alike, but there are also the twins that are absolutely sick of that shadow that comes from always being lumped into something that reeks of some easy destiny. Some celebrity children enjoy hate living in their parents' shadows, some use it to gain their own spotlight. There are so many aspects of personality that are deeper, impossible to pinpoint down to genetics, environment, and so on.

It doesn't matter if your genetic contributors come from a long line of artists. Either who you are embraces and coasts on it, or you loathe it and do all you can to find a life that skews far from the comparison. Still, you'll find that the only way to avoid those comparisons is to go somewhere where no one knows you. Those comparisons always follow and they'll probably be repulsive or complementary no matter how things change. Sometimes the paranoia follows when a stranger makes a bald assumption on where you 'get something' from. Talents aren't necessarily decided by nature and nurture tenants. You can be passionate about something for decades then, just like that, be done with it for good. It's scary to think about, but also curious enough that you can't help but wonder what you might be like over time. I know that my 7 year old self would never have imagined my 37 year old self. My 67 year old self is probably not what I can really imagine either. It's not a lack of wisdom or experience, but largely because I can't possibly understand how wisdom and experience will later shape and manifest.

I've never enjoyed comparisons rooted in assumption, so that leads to a confession not all that startling.

Being compared to my mother is numbing. That didn't change even after she died. The fact that she was almost effortless in life and somehow never did wrong was a painful and confusing message. It got me into trouble and it often made me feel worthless. Don't do what she does--she is rewarded, you will be punished and berated. Very few people were ever able to reach me, to see how her light burned me, to soothe the wounds by saying they saw the flaws. I went back for the pain, time and again, because what hurt also numbed. Did you ever have a healing scab so thick and tight, clawing into your skin, itching, yet peeling it off was a relief, no matter how much it bled and pussed and scarred? That's what it was to love my mother. The fact that I could tell her this, that she'd be awed by my depth and madness instead of hurt and angry...  In the love was the abuse and in the wound was the cure. It didn't offend her. It didn't slow her. She was my best friend but outside of the first nine years of my life, I didn't have a mother in her. I had to learn to self-parent and there were many women, wonderful women, who were mothers to me when I needed one. I did become a motherly type over time, but not through example of my own.

The training wheels on my bicycle came off when I was four. I learned to ride a bike by coasting down a thirty foot hill at a 45° incline with one hand on the handlebar, the other indulging my thumb sucking. Which is often a metaphor for how I stumbled through a great deal of my life. There wasn't someone there to train me. It's possible that I'd have ignored them anyway. Art, sports, gaming--I was good at things I did without much proof in the doing. When encouraged, I'd already been doing it for so long, I was equally surprised they didn't realize it nor how unlikely it was I'd stop.

I'm sure when you have helicopter parents, it's easy to assume you've inherited the good and bad from them. Yet I look at kids nowadays in severe states of abuse and neglect (which was not my case)--even in those cases, there's something in the individual that makes them exceed their circumstances or succumb to them. It's not always a willful or inherited certainty. Again, there are simply some innate traits where people may fight for something but give up on something else. Strong people are strong in areas that they prioritize. You may think someone is strong in everything until you pit them against something they are actually half-hearted about. Then again, even where they are strong, sometimes they are just too worn-out to withstand another fight. Thresholds are there, whether mental or physical, there is only so much pain one can take.

Pain can be absolutely paralytic for me, so I've been adamant about my opinions on how the tortured artist is a bit of a bullshit trope. Pain was not even a driving force. Escape wasn't what I was after. In art, I maneuvered for ways to understand why I felt the world was always kicking me out of normal spaces. I was working out ways to belong that didn't involve hanging myself. I was looking in literal meaning, in metaphors and analogies, in disjointed rhythms and tripping rhymes, in visuals I could see in my head and not find outside of it. 

Creative spaces can be like hospices though. It's a little bit Girl Interrupted with the plastic surface of forced positivity but then you get the wallowers that seem to like talking about being bad at everything or want to have everything done for them. It's a bit the serial widow who slowly poisons the current husband a little too confidently. Even though I've met some amazing people in creative groups, I also realize that taking the mask off attracts the diseases. Or, forgive the Bird Box reference in a time where it's overused but... there are always sweet voices cajoling you to take off the blindfold so they can destroy you.

So I end up breathing deepest in the solitude and isolation of my own zen-like creative space. Even in team efforts with someone I know is reliable, my breaths are measured. It can't be helped. To protect individualism, it will always be a battle to be defined for yourself. To not be taken in by comparison or assumption, the stoicism becomes the happy medium. When working with someone, you still have to discern when to speak and when to listen. While a meeting of the minds can be extremely successful, you can't take for granted the person you work with. They have their own hang-ups and experiences and you have to treat them individually. The larger the group, the more of a challenge it is to unify the voice.

Back on the subject of traits and personality, I'm not offended or hurt or upset by comparisons. If anything, I am motivated to find how I can stand out more on my own. It's a challenge to prove to myself that I cultivated myself. The things that affect me do not define me. I am both grateful and hateful, bitter and sweet. I do have some power over how things affect me and how I affect things. There are some traumas that do create hard limits, but if I become reactionary and hurt someone, I am capable of apologizing when I create that hurt and misunderstanding in someone else.

I realize I'm covering a lot of trails here, but I'm wrapping it up. Busy brains and all...

Lol of course, I don't find a busy brain to be a human boon. As humans, we do too much fucking deep thinking and I don't doubt even idiots do quite a lot of it too, even if they don't end up on the logical side of a decision quite as much. Essentially, it's not the deepest and most profound words that we're drawn to. There are always elitists and self-proclaimed intellectuals that will insist they are looking for that, but I also find those people more likely to drive themselves into a deep misery that eventually needs lighter distraction. I'm more often drawn to those quick and easy thrills, I'll admit. It cracks me up when supposedly intelligent people write this form of entertainment off as lowbrow or that it makes people stupid. Pseudo intellectualism sometimes comes out of some of the most prominent intellectual circles too. In fact, the more a person claims to be an expert, the more likely they are to display the gaping holes created by their biased preferences for what they pass off as universal truth.

Okay, since that sounded like big-word babble, let's simplify. People who paint with one color do not make a rainbow. It's impossible to be completely diverse in a field, but have all the paints ready and make careful strokes. Trying to assume you know everything is a messy blend... that once more just makes one muddy color. Big egos do not make you unrivaled. A healthy ego is one willing to switch to another color, another brush, another perspective. You can still favor red but work with purple and green.

I derail on a lot of side thoughts but the main thing is, we're not meant to be anything. It's poetic and simply neater to romanticize destiny, to find patterns everywhere. People drive themselves into madness with their favorite patterns. It's really freeing when complex guesses are simplified. I love taking complexities and finding simpler ways. As people, our misunderstandings with each other often come with thinking we can apply that to each other. 

But they seemed so happy, there's no way they could hurt themselves.

I'm shocked because that's just not like them.

How often do we hear or even say those things because we were so quick to think we had so neatly figured things out? Or was it simply easier to box away their choices and label them without looking too closely?

You don't have to unpack everyone you meet. It's exhausting, even when down to your inner circle. Yet so many regrets often come from being too afraid to be hurt by the truth. To go back to the paint analogy, broad strokes seem to cover it all, but it's a layer too thin or too unevenly thick and it doesn't go very deep or hold with time. It flakes, it chips, it doesn't last.

For good or bad, I have no regrets with the relationship I had with my mother. I can't blame her for the scars and I still peel the scabs. I may regret more the relationships I lack that rawness with. She had no lack of faith in me, no delusion that I was anyone but me.

She probably got me. I don't know if I could say the same. Whatever we got from each other, death paints that into place. Time paints it differently too. The pain doesn't lessen because we never stop painting someone. Why would we assume that living people can be so easily painted down when the ones who are done are never finished?

We don't need to figure everything out. Hell, I'm pleased when my brain just shuts the fuck up sometimes. Once I've scrambled everything soundly, I could use a mindless bit of fun to wash it down.

Seeing a bit of a pattern? Well, yes. Some things are practiced because the results are consistently comfortable. Some of us are more creatures of comfort, some more risk-takers. For me, I am satisfied with finding a balance there too. I find if I am too comfortable, I worry I am depriving myself of the rewards of risk. I would say it's the way I've always been, but an innate trait.

Although I am not thrilled by being told who I get a trait from, I can concede to it without being too stubbornly against it. I know for myself which parts of me are mine. Most of them. I can also smile or laugh it off when I'm in no mood to argue. Yet, as you can read here, I certainly consider it more deeply than I let on.

Writing Is A Word Game

Well, derp; of course it is. Yet, with the same sort of irony that infects the concept of any game, some people take it way too seriously and forget how to enjoy it. A competitive nature can help a game, but it can just as easily ruin it for yourself or others when you can't be bothered to look like you're having fun or pitch a fit and place blame... All that not-good stuff.

It's trying enough for creatives to always put their best foot forward, to save their personal grievances for inspiration or private conversations, but there are aspects of writing that we often feel is a requirement to be a successful writer. We try to emulate famous writers, only the reason for the way they live comes down to the fact that their popularity is a necessity for their protection. For the new writers, the little guys, people whose every word isn't mainstream, we need to put more blood in the water. Emulating success without having it does not fool people into giving it to us. We more often have to earn it through displays of humility, confidence, honesty rather than ego, arrogance and overexposure...  It's no exact measure but it still has to be an organic process unique to our own journey. As I've addressed before, one of the worst things you can do is turn against people on your platforms, trying to shame them into supporting you. You're more likely to get unfollowed for that. I'm straying just a bit but ultimately, we put undue pressure on ourselves and forget to integrate the game, the joy, of writing.

No, it's not the Game of Thrones or some other be-all-end-all idea. I really want you, as a writer, to stop being so serious for a moment. It doesn't matter how serious you take your story. For now, consider it a comedy. One thing I find odd is that, despite how easy technology makes it to pop open documents and type and delete at the near-speed of your thoughts, that people get so married to their one big project. They'll insist they can't possibly focus on more than one story at a time.

Guess what? I'm not asking you to start anew. You can just as well take your current project for any exercise. In fact, I learned that the Young Writers prompts, while not a fit for my story, were unexpectedly inspirational. In fact, my stubborn ass went in, fully expecting to decide it was a lame way to procrastinate, but instead, I often found myself more intimately in a character's head, more aware of their nature and their motivation, even their fears over what could happen to knock those dearly held beliefs off axis. 

Don't throw away opportunities to procrastinate, play, or simply enjoy your work. As a writer, I know you very likely have an impressive work ethic and you've got your head in making it the best damn story you can. Of all the people who might ask you to prove that, I'm one less because I know you're likely very serious—sometimes to the detriment of all that impressive effort. I also know that you're going to be sure of a lot of things as an excuse not to try them, possibly because you have better things to do. While you're not wrong, you also know what the onset of a writer's block feels and tastes like and these are the moments where what you need to do is feed the muse, not force them into grueling labor.

I won't pretend to know your muse, but where mine is concerned, there's not a damn thing you can force her to do. Since, like the mythological counterpart, gods and muses and magical beings of all sorts tend to be fans of trickery and deception and too flawed to trust, the same could be said of our own inclinations and inspirations. We sometimes need to trick ourselves with treats and incentives. In fact, you've probably long ago made the connection that mythologies are largely just colorful representations of more modern psychological concepts like our own ego, id and superego, analogies for the intricacies of human nature. No, I don't REALLY entertain an actual muse, but she is a good analogy for what occurs in the throes of inspiration. Stephen King insists his muse is male (mythological muses are always female) but of course it is. The muse is an intimate reflection of your identity. If a woman told me her muse is male, I'd just as well think she is trying to tell me she is more comfortable with ideas largely considered masculine. Oh dear god, don't let this lead to some fucking off-the-wall transmusism... Gendered muses aren't really an important concept, any more than your family would be okay with you sending a cutout of yourself instead of showing up for a holiday dinner. Your muse is yours and not a substitute for showing up in life.

This is what I get for late night blogging. I'm playing games with my own topics again. Nevertheless, rather than go off the rails over and over, I'll just assert once more—if your discipline is a roadblock in your goals, you need to ease up on the way you're looking at it. I might think of some prompts to add to a later post, but for now, at least take away the possibility that whatever doubts attract you to posts like this are sign enough that you're likely looking for a break or different approach.

Treating writing like it's fun is a very short stage. There will be plenty about it where you do crack down to get it right. Don't think every part of it has to be hard edges. Writers are often people with lots of fun unfinished drafts, but that's where the writer differs from the author. The author does trudge through what it takes to publish, to take risks, to finish. But don't forget that your stories could really start to lack character if you're unable to give a shit about them.

Why not apply that to any job? I can't recall ever enjoying a job less through refinement, skill and promotion. Sure, some people get bitter, jaded and hateful, but in truth, it doesn't make you a better person to stick with jobs you hate. It rather denotes a lack of courage when you don't make time to find something else. Even in a shitty economy, there are actually sacrifices you can make for what you really want. Yes, it may mean that life will suck for a while, but if you're really determined to reach for a life that will make you happy, then it's certainly better than being endlessly uncomfortable in your bubble of fear.

We live in a time where you can hate your job but sneak onto your phone and look for other jobs. The only thing stopping you from looking is your own doubts.

Games may not all be fun, but the games worth playing always have higher stakes.They also yield better rewards if you break through.

Or as in the Game of Thrones, you either win or you die. Lucky for you, writing isn't quite that high stake.

Selfish

Me. I'm selfish. I'm proud of that because I'm not using it in the same vilified sense that it gets injected into an insult.

My work comes first.

Also something you're probably not getting the context of because I haven't established any. I'm not one of those people that lives to work and the 8-hour work day is not the most productive once you look into it. Sitting at a computer all day is also a bad idea. Those 10 minute breaks every hour where I seem like I'm idling or procrastinating (when I'd rather be writing or drawing)-- those are there for the sake of this ideal of actual productivity.

It's true enough that most days I spend about 10-12 hours easy on work but it's all spread out over my waking moments (and sometimes perched around a nap when I'm really failing at real productivity). I don't ever take real vacations, but I play pretend and intentionally use that infuriating little 'stay-cation' word with a shit-eating grin to show you I know exactly how annoying it is.

I raise my nephews. (Like a boss.) I walk two hours a day. (Like a boss.) I have a social life so rare, it's still mooing.

(Like a cow.)

It's cool. I love the little guys, I don't hate walking, and I also have the coolest most understanding friends who get what creativity entails. They've all seen my room and wonder what Narnia vomited its idea of interior design into such a small space. 'Selfish' is what it took to chase the dream, but I've sacrificed. I pray to the tech gods that my shit won't break because I'm pretty broke and nothing is easy to replace. I miss when I could just go ahead and call someone up because I'm bored and I want to hang out with someone. Most days, my head is so into what I need to do that I plan social visits just so I can be sure I'm actually present and NOT thinking about what's waiting at home.

Work comes first, but to be honest, first place isn't a static factor or at the least, a lot of things share it simultaneously. It's possible to feed a hungry nephew while daydreaming what I stopped writing about and it's oddly possible to have a conversation with them sometimes while drawing (although it's also very likely I'll let slip what I'm doing in PhotoShop instead of what I actually meant to say). It's not exactly the most coherent or fully present version of me but it's a compromise. There was a time I'm not particularly proud of where I'd yell at any interruption or use the possibility of being interrupted as an excuse not to work at all. My nephews are at least old enough now that they're polite about interrupting and even supportive of what it takes to do it.

Gone are the days of putting myself last. It's not just society that makes women feel like it's okay to be self-sacrificing in terms of domestic or nurturing instincts-- sometimes it just exists in us and it's something we have to correct if it doesn't align with our ambitions. Women are encouraged plenty to embrace their nature and we can access self-empowerment without permission so I never blamed men or society for retreating into instincts against my primary ambitions. I also don't regret not going to college sooner or being who I've needed to be to balance raising kids and still being a creative powerhouse. I don't pretend my life is harder or easier than it is and I own the ups and downs. I'm okay with not fitting into liberal or conservative boxes. There are more than enough breeders and homemakers and laser-minded career bitches, etc. Human survival is not at risk for lack of any type of person. I'm okay with swatting flies coming at all sides.

Women like Christina Hoff Sommers exist. Level-headed and self-possessed people who operate with integrity, who push ahead with a clear voice and infinite patience. We live in a country that doesn't quite understand that true acceptance is within and too often it's an outcry for more boxes and less actual freedom of choice for anyone. It's less about respect and more about power/control over strangers. Expectations for the world around you are becoming the greatest source of misery in a country that should actually be flourishing. Who we project ourselves to be is just as vital as who we are. I can't tell you how often I see people completely baffled that they aren't seen as good people because they have 'good hearts' when they actually aren't aware that outwardly, they're projecting their worst defensive traits rather than their ideal. You know, like the 'nice guys' that feel entitled to the world's most 'beautiful' women simply by virtue of having a penis. Lack of self-awareness and entitlement is an ugly trap.

I get how hard it is to be yourself and I'm going to deviate from my original topic a bit because this just in: sometimes people suck. Today, I had to be polite to a man I wanted to punch in the face. I was out walking and saw this guy ahead of me, so I didn't think much of it. I turned down a street and no one was behind me-- until I noticed a shadow picking up speed behind me. I was almost immediately afraid because it was the guy who had been walking ahead of me before but I smiled despite the urge to scream 'creep!'. Not only did I thank him (with clear reluctance and no smiling) when he said I was 'cute' but I gave yes or no answers when he was asking personal questions because the details weren't really any of his business, but I wasn't sure if it would be safe to look away. I hated it, but I also didn't know what kind of psycho I could be dealing with who thinks approaching a strange woman like this was okay. I kept trying to put my earbuds back into my ears in a nervous gesture to signal I didn't want to talk but instead he asked me if I wanted to make five dollars. I had no idea if this was about drugs or sex but I doubted he really thought I was 'cute' but just trying to flatter me into doing something I didn't want to do (and I was insulted that I looked like I'm hard-up for five fucking dollars, possibly). I sped up past him and still I could hear him trying to press me to change my mind. In my mind, all I could think was 'go the fuck away' and' please don't stab me'. Or worse. I wasn't entirely convinced broad daylight or even the risk of neighbors coming to my aid was a deterrent at this point.

I was never more relieved when he gave up, but for the rest of the walk, I kept looking behind me and I never really relaxed. I didn't go home though. I was angry and I didn't want this to mean I'd be too afraid to leave my own house. Look, anything can happen out there. I'm always aware of that. Because of that, sometimes we don't survive by being 'real.' We have to forgive ourselves for what we lose sometimes to see another day (or greet another day without the shame of regret for what we didn't do). There's no manual, and we can't 'have it all' but coming up with a strategy for self-acceptance and survival is worth it. Locking yourself up in safe spaces isn't going to keep you safe from it all either, so risks are necessary to properly understand what is worth trying for.

Writing and drawing, they have their ups and downs too. It can be maddening and isolating if you are able to lock yourself away into it. People see working up to full-time writing as some utopia but it can be abused to self-destruction too if you don't exercise boundaries with it too. You can have too much of a good thing. You can lose a good thing if you take it for granted. Such is life.

Enjoying selfishness is a responsibility, but one you don't have to feel guilt for. Regret? Now there's something that can haunt you. Before I learned that missed opportunities aren't always the end of the world, I knew the sting. It's also useless to let them stick around rent-free. Writing does give me a good place to channel them, but writing is also not about me. Once I pass the baton to a character or a story, it's not about telling my story (because some of it is just not that exciting)-- it's about telling their story and detaching from the consequences and triumphs alike. At some point, I'm just their completely useless therapist, cashing in on how well I turn their life into a book.

Benevolent. Selfish. Hard-working. It's whatever. Just do what it takes to like yourself.

I blame the cow with the incredible hair.