For those of you who heard my question to the novelists panel today, here's the Wikipedia page that describes Impostor Syndrome.

I am having a difficult week. It's hard to tell people that you constantly feel like this, because then they give you compliments, but (a) the impostor syndrome makes you think they are only feeding you positivity to make you feel better and not because anyone actually thinks you are any good and (b) you immediately feel guilty for appearing to be asking for compliments,* thus adding a new layer of guilt which accentuates your feeling of being a big fat idiot fraud that everyone hates.**

I want to say that I know these things aren't true. I want to say that my brain is at least half-functioning, that the logic sector of neuron clumps is firing properly, and that it is only a matter of self-confidence, when we get down to it. But I can't say that. I can't say that I feel like I am good at anything I am doing right now.

It's true that success, to many writers, never feels like success. Many of this group lives in perpetual fear of failure, likely in the eyes of themselves as much as in others'. But I feel like many good authors have at least a little bit of ego to fall back on, to give them buoyancy during times like this. Maybe I'm wrong.


*I call this the I Swear to God, I'm Not Fishing For Compliments dilemma
**See? Now they hate you because you are bad at what you do AND because you demand comfort and compliments like a selfish person***
***so your brain says, anyway

Vocation question: how do you know you're doing the right/best thing?

I struggle with the idea of Vocation with some regularity. It's quite possibly the Catholic upbringing--the idea of being Called to Do Something. This isn't a bad idea. It's possibly not the best idea, but it's pretty good.

On bad days, I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. I know I need to be Working on Big Projects with Ambitious Goals, because I am depressed and dissatisfied when I don't. But what is The Right Thing? What am I called to do? I have felt duty-bound to writing since my undergrad years, but since I discovered that making comics is very much a job, too (a discovery I made about four years ago*), I've been torn. I thought that art had to be my hobby, because I couldn't afford art school. Fortunately, I know now that I was wrong in this assumption. But am I meant to make comics more than I am meant to write prose fiction?

When I was in a bad mood last week, I wrote this:

Writing fiction is painful for me. I do it because...well, that's just it: I have no idea why I do it. I'm good at it, but that's not enough. Is this self-doubt caused by laziness? By the fact that I became a writer because everyone told me I would probably end up doing that? Am I even a writer? It's not like I publish a goddamn thing. If "writer" just means "someone who writes," then yes, that's me. I'll probably write forever. I will write even if it's not my job, because that's just what I do, what I've always done. Maybe that's what makes me a writer, who knows. I've never LOVED it, though--rather, I've never felt loved by it. It's a totally unreciprocated relationship.

There's all this mythos around Writing and I call bullshit. It's much more like math or science than people assume. You have an idea. You want to solve the idea. It is difficult. There is rarely glory in it. Why do most people write, anyway? Most writing is bullshit. Most writing is terrible. I can't handle all the fakey-fake nonsense people spout as they are dotingly asked to describe the process and magic that led them to write their mediocre book. "I wrote for ten million hours today, and it just FLOWED through me, and I also write that much EVERY DAY, it's like SO MAGICAL." No.

Sometimes I just want to run into the wall, repeatedly.

And I feel this way regularly. HOWEVER, I've been on [the world's shortest] summer break for abut two weeks, and what have I done during my "time off"? Started two short stories: one prose, and one comic. If I wasn't meant to write, I wouldn't write during my piddly two weeks of vacation (ESPECIALLY since the weather has been AMAZING this week).

So, ok, I feel connected to both drawing and comics. My big existential crisis of last week came from this absurd idea that I had to choose between them. That led to that nice little italic rant above. It turns out, as long as I considered comics to be a "hobby" and not a legitimate pursuit of my occupational life, I was going to be miserable. So I made a decision: I do not have to choose. I can do both. I am doing both. Why abuse yourself in thinking you are called to be one singular thing? That's terrible! And ridiculous! I mean, jeez, if you want to be a Park Ranger and a Poet, who the heck is going to tell you that you can't? If you want to be a Beautician and a Physicist, do it. Why does one part of your identity have to be a "hobby"? Let me tell you: it doesn't. There is no reason you have to tell yourself that, either. These things that you feel a deep, unabashed passion for? They are not equivalent to casual stamp collecting. Everyone is different, of course, but the big change for me came when I allowed myself to say: I do both. I am a writer and a comics artist.

I may not be as good at the latter, yet, but 24 is hardly too old to get going, and I improve at both every damn day.



*I've loved comics for a very long time, but assumed it just wasn't something I could do. Not that I was incapable--I drew a lot of comics in high school--but no one ever told me that could be a job. High schools really need to learn that there are more careers than Lawyer, Teacher, Doctor, Business Person. Everyone in my high school knew I loved to draw and to write, but not a dang person suggested I could do both of these things at once.

ooooh, changin' it up

Hey all! I'm in the process of changing website stuff. I'm going to try to consolidate all this crap. Sooo, stay tuned, and enjoy the little* changes as they're made (I am not competent enough to magically reveal a complete, glowing, new site overnight) and please forgive me if links get funky or something.

*or big. This could be a multi-change process. If my site looks different three weeks in a row, I'm sorry! I'm finicky!

Romanian Friendship Food

On my mind lately:

--Sexuality and gender roles in Game of Thrones. I like catching up with Laura Hudson and Erik Henriksen after I see the week's episode (both of them are on Twitter, and I obviously recommend following them)

--Cannibalism and carnivory and morality. Sparked by Hannibal (the other show I am addicted to) and this Slate article. I don't really have any opinions here, but I enjoy thinking about these things and discussing them with Daniel.

--Art. How often are things mistaken for art because one "authority" proclaims it to be so, and everyone else is too timid to say: "Hey there, wait a minute--"? When I read a novel, I can tell you if I like it or not, and I can tell you why (in feeling-related or technical terms). My train of thought here goes off into a few directions worthy of whole papers, I'm sure: imitation vs. art, mimesis vs. plagiarism vs. homage, what technically makes art, etc. Unfortunately, it's a bit too nuanced a discussion to have on the internet, as some delightful trolls reminded me on Twitter.

--The Ideal Magazine. I just started subscribing to a brand new mag called Libertine. It's hard to tell where it will go and how much it will improve, because it is the pilot issue and they are trying to figure out their identity. I'm supporting them because I see the potential (and they've really nailed their aesthetic) but it has a little way to go, re: substance.

--Kierkegaard. Like the brilliant Gorey-cover interpretation by Kate Beaton, the man and his ideas are ever-present in my mind. Daniel just sent me this nice piece from AeonMagazine.

--Revision and Pushing Forward. I have a portfolio of work from the term due to the university on Monday, so I am balancing on the slackline between pushing forward and revising what I have. I'm attempting to do both. It kind of gives me a headache. My stack of papers from the term is about 75 shiny, new pages thick and every time I so much as throw the pile a glance, I experience an emotion that we really need a word for in English.

--The Meaning of Life. (Please leave all "42" jokes at the door.)

--How much I love my neighbors. Answer: a lot.

Stuffff

Updates on life, in convenient list form:

1. Operation Social Time was a success! I actually ran into someone at Life Drawing who I'd met at a party about a month ago. And she's awesome (obviously--I mean, we ran into each other at a community center life drawing night). Success! After I came home that night, I put on my pjs and battled the usual feelings of embarrassment (because I am always so dang convinced I've said a million stupid things) and then passed thoroughly out.

2. Went to some new pubs. Found a little one downtown that I'll probably frequent, and spent some time in the sunshine drinking ginger beer on the front lawn of another that's right by Port Meadow.

3. Sunshine is great. Glad we had like two days of it before winter decided to return. Back to getting vitamin D in pill form...

4. My new favorite place is the small Polish grocery store in the little outdoor shopping center by my house. They've been open for about two weeks, and I've been in there five times already. A bag of frozen pierogi for £2? A huge jar of sauerkraut for £0.99? YES PLEASE. I'm working on my Polish, because I seem to be the only non-native speaker who shops there. I at least want to be able to say thank you, so I practice saying "dziekuje" (among like 10 other basic phrases) under my breath every day. Polish is such a rad language.

5. Got my eyebrow pierced. It hurt more than a tattoo, I think, or maybe it just hurt differently. It's pretty gnarly to feel someone manually shove a fat needle into and out of your face. Was a slower process than nose (or ears)--only by a few seconds, but that's a surprisingly long time in context. It's funny how I'm such a wimp about getting shots, but tattoos and piercings make me feel meditative and chill. Ah, the mysteries of the human brain.

6. Turned in my last (non-final-portfolio) packet of the semester on Friday after much kicking and screaming and gnashing of teeth. The novel, she progresses.

7. In case you're totally curious about what I'm reading right now: Nausea by Sartre, Blood Meridian by McCarthy.

8. Game of Thrones, amiright?

fight fight fight

Everyone experiences feelings they do not like: jealousy, guilt, etc. Well, perhaps some people do like to feel these things, but then I assume the feeling they dislike is calm. I am currently experiencing feelings of resentment. Though my logical brain feels otherwise, my emotional responses to anyone in my field who I perceive to be successful (or even "more successful than me") are extremely bitter this afternoon. I am not envious of their money or their accolades or their fans; I am envious of the fact that they seem able to get their shit done.

I am an occasional procrastinator, but I have been fighting those old urges, and I've been fairly successful. I work every day. I think about my work in the quiet moments before dinner, before bed, while I'm eating my lunch. And yet. I've tried to lower my standards, to just get shit out on the page, but even then--I typically get one or two days of real writing, unencumbered, absolutely flowing, two days of it. And want to know how much I produce during these days? Three pages, if I'm lucky. So I'm feeling resentful. I'm upset at myself for not being able to write 10 pages a day, for not possessing the physical stamina to work for eight hours. It's not a competition, but it can feel like one. I love my peers--LOVE them. They are the brothers and sisters in arms that I never imagined I would be lucky enough to find. I do not like being envious of them. I do not like these feelings that my body has so graciously burdened me with.

The worst part is that I am afraid. I'm afraid that my peers, my advisors, will think I am lazy, will think I am not dedicated. I'm afraid that people outside of my field think I'm a freeloader, because (as all of us know) I've had people treat me like I don't have a "real job," like i am obligated to skip out and do what they want because it's not actually skipping work, for two years. I don't have published work online, outside of a few freelance projects which don't really represent me, or in magazines. I am afraid that I am behind. I am afraid of dedicating my life, my mis-wired brain, to to something I love passionately but which abuses as often as it rewards. I am afraid of failing.

But here I am, doing it anyway. Or trying, at least. Something about this is unhealthy, but I suppose that's the price we pay. Maybe that's really the root of it--I'm jealous of those who don't seem like they have to pay as high a price. I'm off the mark, I know, but I don't know many writers who writhe on the floor and whine quite as ineloquently as I do--or who talk about it. Maybe that's a good thing. I don't know. I'm just upset with myself right now, and I don't have the energy to ask for help with my usual wit. I just wanted to be honest, to let out all these ridiculous feelings that don't serve any good purpose.

Maybe if this was easier for me, I'd be doing it wrong. I don't know. I'm trying. I'm really trying.

uncharacteristic attempts at social interaction

I want to make friends in this city. I've been here for 3 months, almost to the day, and I've been playing it pretty safe thus far. Tonight, D is going to a co-worker's house for a thing, and I'm going on a [terrifying/exhilarating/mostly terrifying] solo adventure involving a life drawing hour at a community center, followed by an open mic night. The last time I went out on a limb like this was extremely disappointing, but I think it'll be different this time. I'm nervous (blah blah I'm an introvert blah) but, at the very least, I'll get some drawing time out of it. (And I haven't done non-photo-based i.e. real Life Drawing since my art class almost 3 years ago, so I'm stoked!!)

Word on the street is that trying new things is good. New city, new country, TWO new events, and I won't know a single person there--I should be an expert on leaving my comfort zone by, like, 7pm.

Wish me luck?