Writing on the Brink

For weeks I’ve been plugging away on a few projects, one of which I’ve finally started to talk about to other people a bit more in detail. It’s not that I’m afraid that someone is coming to come along and take my ideas and do better than me or get it out sooner, it’s because I’m just that horribly shy with my ideas. Pretty sure I can hear someone reading this that’s familiar with Mountain Country Gal and has seen the live cooking demos ready to wave me down and point those out. Let me be fair, I did those because, believe it or not, I am comfortable with public speaking. I speak in front of people weekly as a trainer. Cooking demos are nothing but training routines. I can do that. However talking about your thoughts, ideas, and innovations in front of strangers can be rather daunting. It’s easy to sell people on policy, pep talks, recipes, and what to do in case of emergency. Trying to sell people on yourself is a talent I just don’t seem to have, but I am trying to fix that.

The closer I get to completing my current manuscript the more I realize I’m writing from a place that’s teetering on the edge of obscurity. I know that, as an adult, I am not supposed to reflect on my childhood as a source of hang-ups and excuses. However, it does get a little complicated when you still hear voices somewhere in the back of head trying to rise up from out of your memory leaking their venom into your conscious mind and all you want to do is to defang the goddamn snake and wear its hide as a belt.

“You’re talented, but not that talented.  I don’t want you to struggle, so you should find something else to do.”

“People like you, well, they just aren’t meant to make it big. Think small scale. Keep your expectations lower.  You’re a smart kid.”

“The reason you fail is because you just aren’t likeable. Bad luck about that.”

For years I’ve been in a place of “just okay.” I’ve been trying different things, trying to find that perfect fit. I’ve studied humanities, fine arts, law, and history. All these things made me happy in one way or another, but nothing made me feel empowered. I’ve been standing at the brink of giving up and never coming back to so many things for such a long time. I took to dressing all my fears and anxiety up into little pretty folded paper cranes on strings and trying to make it look like there’s never been anything wrong and I have a handle on it all. I realize I’ve grown fucking tired of it. Open up that paper crane, it’s a mess. I have worked so hard on myself that I tend to forget that working on yourself to keep a broken soul running is that you have to work on it every day. Constant minor adjustments to stay on track. It’s a lot of work to be this crazy, friends.

Today I need to address some snakes and defang them and I’ll let you watch. Important thing to do it grab the snake by the head and just go at it like the hero you are.

I am talented. Thank you for noticing. However, struggle has many different definitions. I struggle with the stability I found that you suggested. I’m not happy. I’m going to do the fun thing anyway.

People like me? I’ve known for a long time that this a dig at my weight. I can only meet this with one response: Fuck you. If being fat means you’re a bad person somehow, then people have a long way to go when it comes to understanding the basic human condition how not to be a sanctimonious dick.

For my last snake, I don’t know how I ever let you get into my head. I doubt it’s my likeability. Some of their least likeable people ever have became the leaders of nations. They didn’t let people like you in their heads or believe that crap. I am more mad at myself that I ever let myself believe you than you for saying it. From now on you’re living on the moon because I don’t plan on ever seeing or talking to you again.

That’s all I have for today. A public exposition of feelings and allowing myself to be judged. My step forward. This is why I love writing. It’s my voice, but there might be someone else that hears themselves in it. From there, well, that’s up to the reader.

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

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