I'm not sure whether to entitle this "words", or "lazy". I haven't yet filled in the title box. probably when I do, i'll choose something else altogether. But those are the words that bring me here tonight.
Since I've been home, I've done a lot of reading. I say "a lot", but really I've managed about 8 books since I've returned. And they're not anything special. I'm not reading the classics, and I'm not reading good Christian inspiring literature (as if literature can have a soul and join the ranks of the Redeemed...but that's another rant...) I've mostly been reading young adult literature. I stumbled upon another friend recently who loves this genre and it made my day. I love finding a kindred spirit in my silly quirks. But that's not really what I'm intending to write about either. Just felt it was worthy of mentioning. Anyway, I read this young adult lit for a variety of reasons- it's mindless, it's unassuming, it's thought-provoking, (yes, mindless AND though-provoking). I guess what I mean to say is that it allows me to think without forcing me to think. And we all know I don't like being forced to do anything.
And that brings me to the issue of laziness.
When I read certain ones of these books, I'm reminded of how much I love words. See, I've found most authors do one of two things, usually. They create characters that love words, or the create characters that HATE academics. There's rarely an in-between. They tend to create a character they understand, and most authors understand what it means to love language. They've danced with words in moments of intense passion, soaked in them like a luxurious bath after a long day. And as I read the characters, I realize I'm one of them. I do this. I love this. I LOVE language. I can totally geek out talking about words, or the history of words, or the origin of words, or the theories behind words. Some days I want to abandon the head knowledge of them and just experience them, but a lot of days I can really enjoy all the academic stuff behind language. And yes, I still use words like "stuff."
I'm so self-conscious about my writing. I think it's because I realize how many people there are who are better than me. See, for a long time I didn't. In high school, I was pretty much the best. I realize that sounds arrogant, but it's true. I wrote well, I had perfect grammar, I never proofed my own work, I always proofed everyone else's. Then I went to college and everyone was good, and I was just one of many good writers. In fact, I was a good amongst greats in a lot of cases. I know I'm good, but I now know there are MANY out there who are MUCH better. This does not diminish my talent, it simply acknowledges that there are those with more. That's simply a fact of life. A fact I enjoy, because it means I get to relish in the words of others. I get to read this blog and enjoy that I had the privilege of being in class with such a beautiful writer, thinker, and girl. Or I get to read this blog and find one of those kindred spirits I mentioned before, whom I've hardly met yet feel like I know so well.
But here's the difference- I am incurably lazy. I say "incurably", though I'm sure it's not true. I'm sure there's a cure for my sloth. But I've had professors and teachers and friends and family assure me at some time or another that I've reached only a tad bit of my potential, and that is because of my lack of dedication to the task at hand. If I had a dollar for every time my piano teacher laughed in frustration (probably to keep from crying) at how much I could accomplish on basically no practice time, I'd have been a rich little girl...and a rich teenager.
If I had a dollar for every knowing look from my favoritest might-as-well-be-british professor, upon realizing that the B level paper I just turned in would've been so much better if I'd begun working more than 48 hours in advance...
If I had a dollar for every time Aly and Amber laughed and/or stressed at my habits...
I should've capitalized on this long ago.
Or perhaps learned from it, at least.
So here's my big confession- here's the big problem I have:
I am so afraid that I'll put in the work and still not be good enough.
I'm terrified that if I finally buckle down and do something I feel is excellent, it will still only be considered good.
I am scared that my assessment of my abilities is larger than reality.
I'm afraid of failing, and being so hurt I never try again.
Is this a pride problem? Probably.
But it's a matter of identity for me. It's who I am. If I try hard and fail at something I thought I was capable of, then who am I? Then what do I do? How can I trust anything then?
Is this extreme and silly? Somewhat.
Is it still an issue for me, however ? Most definitely.
Is my current job search and (subsequent rejection) bringing me dangerously close to the feelings I just described? YES.
Am I afraid? YES.
Am I angry? yes.
Am I bitter? not yet
Am I desperate? soon...
Right now the afraid part wins out though.
What if I'm not good enough? What if I can't find a job? What if no one wants me? What if I find a job and can't do it well? What if I'm miserable(r)? What if I never make any money and can't afford a family and never have a stable life again?
What if I just want normalcy, despite the fact that I realize normal will never feel normal again?
And now I don't even know what this post is about.
But because I love the words, I come back here and write it all out for everyone to see. Because the words have power, even over me. And when I name something, I know it. When I name it, I begin to master it. Then it's less scary. Less overwhelming. Less foreign. When it has a name, I can do with it what I do with other words. Write it, feel it, soak in it, and perhaps begin to understand it. And eventually, use it... for good.
Since I've been home, I've done a lot of reading. I say "a lot", but really I've managed about 8 books since I've returned. And they're not anything special. I'm not reading the classics, and I'm not reading good Christian inspiring literature (as if literature can have a soul and join the ranks of the Redeemed...but that's another rant...) I've mostly been reading young adult literature. I stumbled upon another friend recently who loves this genre and it made my day. I love finding a kindred spirit in my silly quirks. But that's not really what I'm intending to write about either. Just felt it was worthy of mentioning. Anyway, I read this young adult lit for a variety of reasons- it's mindless, it's unassuming, it's thought-provoking, (yes, mindless AND though-provoking). I guess what I mean to say is that it allows me to think without forcing me to think. And we all know I don't like being forced to do anything.
And that brings me to the issue of laziness.
When I read certain ones of these books, I'm reminded of how much I love words. See, I've found most authors do one of two things, usually. They create characters that love words, or the create characters that HATE academics. There's rarely an in-between. They tend to create a character they understand, and most authors understand what it means to love language. They've danced with words in moments of intense passion, soaked in them like a luxurious bath after a long day. And as I read the characters, I realize I'm one of them. I do this. I love this. I LOVE language. I can totally geek out talking about words, or the history of words, or the origin of words, or the theories behind words. Some days I want to abandon the head knowledge of them and just experience them, but a lot of days I can really enjoy all the academic stuff behind language. And yes, I still use words like "stuff."
I'm so self-conscious about my writing. I think it's because I realize how many people there are who are better than me. See, for a long time I didn't. In high school, I was pretty much the best. I realize that sounds arrogant, but it's true. I wrote well, I had perfect grammar, I never proofed my own work, I always proofed everyone else's. Then I went to college and everyone was good, and I was just one of many good writers. In fact, I was a good amongst greats in a lot of cases. I know I'm good, but I now know there are MANY out there who are MUCH better. This does not diminish my talent, it simply acknowledges that there are those with more. That's simply a fact of life. A fact I enjoy, because it means I get to relish in the words of others. I get to read this blog and enjoy that I had the privilege of being in class with such a beautiful writer, thinker, and girl. Or I get to read this blog and find one of those kindred spirits I mentioned before, whom I've hardly met yet feel like I know so well.
But here's the difference- I am incurably lazy. I say "incurably", though I'm sure it's not true. I'm sure there's a cure for my sloth. But I've had professors and teachers and friends and family assure me at some time or another that I've reached only a tad bit of my potential, and that is because of my lack of dedication to the task at hand. If I had a dollar for every time my piano teacher laughed in frustration (probably to keep from crying) at how much I could accomplish on basically no practice time, I'd have been a rich little girl...and a rich teenager.
If I had a dollar for every knowing look from my favoritest might-as-well-be-british professor, upon realizing that the B level paper I just turned in would've been so much better if I'd begun working more than 48 hours in advance...
If I had a dollar for every time Aly and Amber laughed and/or stressed at my habits...
I should've capitalized on this long ago.
Or perhaps learned from it, at least.
So here's my big confession- here's the big problem I have:
I am so afraid that I'll put in the work and still not be good enough.
I'm terrified that if I finally buckle down and do something I feel is excellent, it will still only be considered good.
I am scared that my assessment of my abilities is larger than reality.
I'm afraid of failing, and being so hurt I never try again.
Is this a pride problem? Probably.
But it's a matter of identity for me. It's who I am. If I try hard and fail at something I thought I was capable of, then who am I? Then what do I do? How can I trust anything then?
Is this extreme and silly? Somewhat.
Is it still an issue for me, however ? Most definitely.
Is my current job search and (subsequent rejection) bringing me dangerously close to the feelings I just described? YES.
Am I afraid? YES.
Am I angry? yes.
Am I bitter? not yet
Am I desperate? soon...
Right now the afraid part wins out though.
What if I'm not good enough? What if I can't find a job? What if no one wants me? What if I find a job and can't do it well? What if I'm miserable(r)? What if I never make any money and can't afford a family and never have a stable life again?
What if I just want normalcy, despite the fact that I realize normal will never feel normal again?
And now I don't even know what this post is about.
But because I love the words, I come back here and write it all out for everyone to see. Because the words have power, even over me. And when I name something, I know it. When I name it, I begin to master it. Then it's less scary. Less overwhelming. Less foreign. When it has a name, I can do with it what I do with other words. Write it, feel it, soak in it, and perhaps begin to understand it. And eventually, use it... for good.
