I love reading, and I truly admire authors who are successful enough to have published. I am awe-full, and horribly, horribly jealous. This is why; and why I hope maybe, one day, it might change.
I remember being a kid -- a really young kid, still in single digits. I remember playing -- with my Barbies, although they weren't my favorites, with My Little Ponies and baby dolls and my brother's GIJoes -- with, really, any apropriate, even *vaguely* anthropomorphised toys I could find. I even seem to recall perhaps anthropomorphising leaves and twigs and flowers when nothing else was available (like, we were at my Grandma's way out in the country & hadn't taken toys or they had been left inside when we kids were pushed out the door and told to go roam the field and forest but don't go further than the stream, you know which one!
I remember that, with these, I created elaborate, almost soap-opera-like storylines, some that would continue for days and some that were episodic shorts. Some, even, were complete in and of themselves. But they were definitely stories, each with a beginning, a middle and an end. If, for some reason, I couldn't complete a specific storyline in a given play session, I would stay awake after I was supposed to be asleep and plot it all out in my head.
Sadly, as I got older, I started listening to the outer voices. They weren't saying things like, "You can't do that." "You're no good." Instead, they were saying things like, "You should be thinking about your math and science." "Learn to cook and clean; those are skillls that will serve you as an adult." I learned to say and do what those voices -- the adults in my life -- told me. And as I got older, I lost track of the authentic, ME voices. I lost something essential to my emotional health. And it's only continued as I got older.
In high school (those of you who know me in Real Life will probably remember) I had a string of random, disastrous, long-lasting relationships. I stayed in them, as you may or may not know, out of guilt. I had this idea of what each of them needed from a relationship, and I strove to mold myself to that idea, whether it was true to me or not. And it almost always was not. I'm lucky enough to still be good friends with ONE of those guys.
I had one year of college where I was able to break free of the molds I had been struggling to feel all my life. I was able to live in the dorms and just be, without worrying about my whether I was meeting my mom's expectations, or anyone else's. I experimented with my sexuality (just a bit; I still managed to be a Good Girl) and with my voice. I took a creative writing class, but it focused mostly on poetry. I liked the poetry, but it wasn't what I wanted; I was looking forward to the prose portion, but the instructor left it for the last 3 weeks of a 12-week course, and just sort of...turned us loose with no real attempt to direct us (probably because she was a poet.) That was pretty much disastrous, and scared me away for a long time from trying my skills again.
Then came kids and family obligations and life.
Sometimes, I feel like I fail as a girl, and know I'd make an even worse guy. I am not confident in my persona as a wife or mother, and I *know* I'm not the greatest of housewives. But I'm an excellent reader, and I convince myself I'm a slightly-better-than-decent friend. I'm good at the technical aspects of writing -- I know research, and I can string together some pretty effective arguments when I need to. Essays, check. And I can, if pressed, paint one HELL of a word-picture. But the creative end of it? I don't know.
I read author interviews, and there's a sameness to them: "I am just a vessel for the Muse." "The characters tell me their stories and I write them down." "I get these plot bunnies and I have to chase after them..."
I don't hear those Voices any more. I loved those Voices, and I miss them.
I don't argue about stuff, and I don't often offer my opinion unless I feel very strongly. I have learned that there are people who don't hear you, and sometimes those are the people closest to you, the ones you most need to have hear. So it's hard for me. I worry sometimes I've killed off that part of me that dreams and travels and Speaks to me. I hope not, and I have occasional flashes that keep that hope alive.
So, this is me, coming out of my hiding place, letting the Voices know they can come back and see me. My head is open for business. Just be kind -- or go away; don't let me think you're listening if you're really not.
No comments:
Post a Comment