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.
Oh, Allison! I live in "afraid," so often leaning against "angry," having to push back at "bitter" which encroaches.
ReplyDeleteSomewhere there's this place where the love for words meets the love of the Word, where naming meets being named, where "afraid" meets "Peace, be still." I don't go there often enough, but there's no where else, really, to go. You know that, too, but I know it doesn't always make it better.
Even so, that Word is in the business of making beautiful.
(Also, thanks for the link-up. You're sweet.)
For some reason I don't get email updates when people comment anymore, but thanks so much, friend. I love your kind words and encouragement.
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