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Lingering Demons
I am listening to Play by Moby and it's probably the wrong thing to listen to, because it's depressing me more. On the other hand, if I listened to Spike Jones, I'd be cheerful, but unable to write.
I am not quite ready to start doing the Aedie planning yet. I could play The Sims some more, or post mouth organ items (not enough new posts lately! I'm falling down on the job! Must ... keep ... up ....pace). I don't have the energy to do any of it. Hate, depression, and pain are exhausting; that's why I try to get rid of them.
I have written about hate and fear and pain for four days, and although I'm still unhappy about the things I'm feeling, it's a different kind of unhappy - it's the unhappy of knowing that now I must roll up my sleeves and fight to combat these feelings some more. It's not the feelings of hate and anger themselves, which were worse when they were un-dissected.
Everything is worse when you let it sit in the shadows and make a monster of it. These last ones, though, the demons below - they're the foundation of my existence. I worry that I can't dissect them. I worry that if I do dissect them, I will stop being the person I am. In particular, I worry that I will solve my angsts and then discover, too late, that it is only my rage and pain that kept me putting words on paper.
Which is worse, being full of hate or being unable to write?
I talked with Nonelvis a lot tonight about what I want from writing. See, part of my disillusionment is that I feel that being a writer is my only chance left to excel. I am not going to be a noteworthy anything else - writing is my only remaining hope, it's the last horse I have to bet on. Intelligence is not enough; I don't have charisma - it's got to be creative talent. But what am I actually seeking? What is the definition of "excel" here?
I finally decided that what I wanted is for someone to look at some of my writing and admire it. I want them to say, "Wow, that's good, I wish I'd done that." That's the closest I care to get to fame and recognition. I want the small recognition, not the big one.
But - and this is a very large "but" -
It has to be writing that was an effort for me, writing that took an appreciable amount of sweat. It has to be appreciation that I feel I've earned.
That means that compliments on my journal aren't good enough; compliments on my short stories aren't good enough. I didn't sweat for those; you see them the way they were written down, maybe with flaws, but exactly in the effortless way they came out of my head. Since I am obviously not a genius and never will be, I can't take seriously a compliment on something that easy.
(Which doesn't mean I'm not glad you enjoy the words! Your joy and my joy are not in the least bit connected. Aren't you glad?)
Nonelvis says I'm being wrong-headed here, but I can't see why. Why shouldn't I define my worth on a scale that's meaningful to me? What good is other people's praise if I don't think I was entitled to it? You can say I write better than seventy-five percent of the people in the country - so what? Seventy-five percent of the people in the country can't write worth a damn.
Anyway, that's what I want. I want to make an effort and have it be appreciated. I want to go to a convention one day and have someone shake my hand and say, "I really liked your novel," and know they mean it. Of course, I have to have really liked my novel as well. Otherwise they're admiring a bad book, and I'll just assume they had a temporary lapse of taste when they read it.
You might say that I'm my toughest fan.
The rest of the Lingering Demons are a lot simpler than that one, but no easier to drive out. Here they are:
1. If I demonstrate intelligence, people will think I'm a snob or a bore. If I make any mistakes, people will think I'm a moron. With some of my fascinations, if I talk about them, I'm a freak. If I keep my mouth shut and don't say anything, I'm a cold fish.
2. Corollary: People are harsh, unforgiving, and essentially brutal in their character judgments.
3. People don't really usually like other people much and are looking for any excuse to reject them.
4. If I make a mistake in relations with another person, it's forever. I recently screwed up a friendship with my big mouth. Do I try to save it or abandon it? Why, I abandon it, silly. Unless she writes and says that the hurt is forgiven, and she's too honest to do that. Hurts are never forgiven, just glossed over.
5. Altruism is a myth. We are born essentially self-centered and we stay that way. We just construct all sorts of social layers to hide it.
6. Being corrected in public for some sort of knowledge error, however minor, is grounds to withdraw from all contact with everyone in the conversation for an extended time.
7. Most people are clueless. Not stupid. Ignorant. They could absorb the information if they wanted it. But they don't want it. So don't try to tell them.
8. Any subject which truly puts the light of knowledge in my eyes - the ones I could talk about endlessly - are the ones that no one else is interested in hearing about and which I must try the hardest to avoid. You can't trust them if they say they're interested; they lie. (All social graces are lies.)
And, most importantly:
9. Any group which welcomes and accepts me will more than likely be a group whose companionship I consider tainted and thereby reject, which only leads to
10. I dislike my own strengths and despise my own weaknesses.
This really is a depressing CD.
© Columbine
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