The Day After The Day After

The last two days have been fantastic, more or less. The workshop I went to was worth ever penny of its 25 dollars a session, and more (if I could afford more). It's too bad, in a way, that I shall miss my next one. I managed three poems in a single day on Tuesday, counting the one I wrote before going. And on Wednesday I got to hang out at one of my very favorite places, the Golden Flower tea shop downtown. It was nice, and Julie recognized me. I found a piece of writing I had forgotten about in my notebook. I drew a little, and played around with the poems I had written the day before. Then I had Writing Club at Chelsee's, and that, too, was fantastic. For the first time ever I have a circle of adults with common interests and regular meeting times. It is like Anime club, but not. The feeling of meeting outside of school was heady and potent, and I adored everyone there. Eliza bought us all drinks, a most welcome and appreciated gesture. And while the roleplay on the message board (you can find there here: http://z11.invisionfree.com/FTCC_Writing_Club/index.php?showtopic=17) Has slowed down quite a bit, I've been really enjoying myself.

So why do I feel icky and sluggish? My censor had been very, very active this morning. Thinking about how I should finish editing what Chris has passed around, finish making the tenses match and all my bazillion readability suggestions, and the little voice goes "Like you have so very much more experience than he does. Who do you think you are? He's the one with the publisher and the contract, what could you possibly have to offer against that?". And the melancholia hits me like a sledgehammer.

I have not, in quite some time, had anyone tell me they DISLIKED what I had written. When someone finishes something of mine I receive comments like: "That was cool" or "That was good" or "I liked such-and-such". And I get minor suggestions and criticisms too, which I thrive upon in a way, cause I think "I can make it better. It's already good, but if those are the only objections I can just polish it up, and it will be good. Someone will want it."

And today I feel like no one will ever want it. That everything I write is pleasantly mediocre, it never stays with anyone longer than a few minutes. That I do not write poetry that lingers and flames in the air, like Blake, like Shakespeare, like Tennyson.... That my prose has no meaning to anyone but me. That the characters that are so vivid and real and important to me will never crawl into the heads of other people and set up house in the way of Goodkind, Jordan, McCafferey, Moon, Weber, Card and a hundred others. I think in many ways I have attractive craftsmanship. My sentences are intricate, intelligent, and descriptive. But are they interesting? Are they inspired? I fear that what I lack is not something I can grow into. It's not something I can get better at with practice: the fundamental flame of vivid imagination and inspiration that lights an answering fire in other human beings. What else can it be, when someone expresses interest in what I have written, and once they have read a piece of it, they do not ask for more?

And I have to wonder if all my creative works are doomed to pleasant mediocrity. That everything I do will be met with "That's very nice. But I was thinking about this other thing over here....". I will be doomed to the realm of mild, short-lived interest and appreciation , where everyone likes what I've done in a general sort of way, but no one wants to live in my universe, buy the house I've made, use my animations.... My structures, in word or image, will forever be too confining and restrictive, and never, never tempt anyone to exist within them.

I feel as though no matter what I do, my worlds and buildings will never contain anyone but me, and the people in my head. I am not bad enough to make better. I am not good enough to succeed.

This is, of course, the nasty censor and inner saboteur talking. I don't even have an Associate's Degree in architecture yet, I still have plenty of room to practice and improve there, and my ideas are always getting freer in that realm. I do not play with my 3D animation software, or even my paint programs, enough to be even thoroughly versed in them, let alone a fantastic artist. And my writing....I have very little finished, besides poetry. And what I do have, one novel, one short story, needs serious editing. The short story is my best bet, it's new and I haven't despaired of it yet and it needs relatively little work. But who will take it? Who would want something so cliche? The outcome is predictable. The characters are stereotypes. Certainly everyone who has read it has gotten a different idea about what it is really about but...is that enough?

I have sent out my poetry twice, and been rejected both times. No one asks me "What wonderful thing have you created or worked on today?" But I don't really know what I want from other people. I thought I just wanted a balanced critique, a gentle understanding of what is good, and what could be better and how. But it isn't enough. But it isn't enough. At the end of the day, what I want, crave, is for SOMEONE to be interested, to be excited by my creative process. To be blown away the way I am by Eliza's poetry, Scribe's exquisite worlds, Adryn's fascinating characters, Jen's delightful narrative, Chris's vivid imagery, Raymond's mystic concepts, or Relaeh's evocation of emotion. In the end I want someone (no, let's be honest here, I want EVERYONE) to ask when they see me, hear from me, "So what have you worked on lately? Oh really? That's awesome! When can I see it? This is fantastic!".

That, I think, is what I want. Thorough and constant validation that my creative struggle is worthwhile. And I do not want to hear it in response to my begging here. I want to hear it because my work is genuinely interesting, engaging, exciting. And while I feel like this, I don't know if I could accept that response as genuine and valid even if I did receive it.

The day before yesterday I could do everything. Today, I can do nothing. That's Scorpio extremism for you. Do I look as absolutely pathetic and ridiculous as I think I do? Don't answer that, this is merely a poor me rant with no basis. It deserves no response. I am putting off my homework.

The Gloom Fades

Today I begin a workshop for gently unblocking creative writers. I've been a lot better lately about writing, probably more consistent than I've ever been outside of poetry class, and a heck of a lot less forced. But I still consistently block myself, and I'm writing new things rather than finishing the old, which I desperately want to do. So today I shall take a bus downtown (at eight in the morning, no less) and hopefully transfer to a second bus so that I won't have to walk the half an hour (read as 3/4 of a mile) and anger my knees again. I went and found the building yesterday all on my own. It took two hours round trip because I got lost and couldn't find it (mainly because I was looking for the wrong number), and I got hit on by a rather attractive Mexican. Not even I can misconstrue a steady series of increasingly personal questions leading up to "Can I have your phone number, and Are you married?". He followed me down the block a ways. I'm still not sure whether I'm more flattered by the attention, or want Raymond there to protect me. Is this what happens when a young woman goes walking alone? I don't know, I've never really done it before. It's a giddy feeling, like riding a roller coaster. Scary even though you're quite safe. Probably good that I'm a little frightened, as it will keep me out of trouble.

In any case, in honor of my writing class today, I shall start the day with some free verse.

The Gloom Fades

The gloom fades, the fog lifts
I can see my fingers and toes
Through the haze of my mental storm

The clouds lift, the night fades
Heart pain has been replaced
By the physical pangs of knee and neck

Take some Aleve, rub in some balm
I laugh at these physical ills
They have easements that the heart knows not.

Beg to differ, some say there are
Such easy ungents for the soul
To soothe the insubstantial tide of emotion.

Alcohol (degenerative mask), drugs (deadly dangerous)
Religion (of which I have over-imbibed)
But I think I shall try the cure of friendship

The gloom fades, the fog lifts,
The cure may be temporary,
But the balm of friends is no longer anathma.