I’ve had this window open all day – a blank sheet of paper, the writer’s best friend and worst enemy. Yes, I said “writer”. It’s of no use to me to continue this game of mock indecision. I’ve always known this is what I am. Bookshelves of filled journals dating back to elementary school, lovely pens in every drawer of every room, an empty journal in every bag, backpack and suitcase, volumes of pages printed from files stored on my old Apple 2gs, files on a portable hard drive and taking up space on a couple of remote servers: it’s all proof of my denial. So why haven’t I completed anything or even had any interest in writing for the past several years? One tiny word that causes so much grief for everyone – ego.
I’m not sure why, as a society, we’re so addicted to ego. We obsess about how we compare to those we consider to be the picture of beauty, talent, success, you name it. Why can’t it just be wonderful to be ourselves? Instead of embracing the variety of shapes, sizes, nationalities and colors we are born into, we pick one unattainable definition of perfection and measure ourselves against it. In the end, even the person we believe bears the closest resemblance to perfect really is not. Mr. or Miss Perfect compares him/herself to someone else too! It’s like mental disease epidemic. Here is where I insert my usual tagline, “and this is why I don’t have kids”.
Some people use that ego energy to propel themselves from humble beginnings to great success and superstardom. They push themselves to get as close as they possibly can to what they believe is perfection. Along the way many of them discover that what they are shooting for doesn’t exist. Some people (and I fall into this category more often that the other) just give up. What is the point of wanting something that can never be? What’s the point of trying if you can n ever get what you want, especially if what you want doesn’t make you happy? I may as well just accept the misery now and get it over with. I got tired of getting my heart broken. Amidst the melancholia, I observed something strange. There was a glimmer of light, the surprising and blissful moments of complete clarity that somehow sustained my hope in some of the lowest depressions I experienced. Even when those dreary days ran together into weeks, months, years, there was always that tiny spark keeping me going. I don’t know how it survived, and that doesn’t really matter anyway. I’m just thankful that it’s still there.
I’ve spent the majority of my life beating myself up for not feeling how “successful” people feel, as if there was any way I could have felt any differently or as if the self-inflicted guilt would change my feelings in a positive way. Now, as 40 appears on the horizon, I finally don’t care. I don’t care about pleasing or displeasing my mom. I don’t care if my brother respects me. I don’t care if my ex wants to be friends after we break up. I don’t care if I never get anything else published. I mean, yes, it would be nice but that isn’t why I write. I write because it makes me feel sane. I write because the chaos swirling around in my head runs through my fingertips and lines up nicely on the page. Then, there’s quiet – peaceful, spacious quiet. This is why I am a writer.
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