Trying desperately to meet the deadline for finishing my novel. Much anxiety.
I ask myself: What are you so afraid of?
The Great Fear:
If I don't do things just right, everyone will discover what a loser I am. I will wake up one night and find the whole town outside my house with flaming torches and pitchforks. They will attack me, beating me with clubs, and drive me into the desert, where I will be forced to exist the rest of my life alone, cast out, with hungry jackals all around.
But what if I managed to find some way to survive?
Perhaps I could befriend the jackals. (After all, a jackal is just a kind of dog, right? And dogs like me.) This would give me, the Big Loser, enormous power. I might become "The Jackal Woman."
Then because once a society creates Losers and Pariahs it cannot survive without them, pretty soon other people will get banished to the desert. There will develop a whole community of us. The Jackal People.
Need I be so bold as to suggest that this has already happened?
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
A Very Long Meditation on Failure, Writing, God, Terror, Erasmo, Drawing, Neurosis, and A Very Famous Writer
"Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
Mary Oliver
I don’t know what God wants me to do about writing.
Years ago we had three women set up to give a talk for my women’s club. At the last minute one woman, in fact the best speaker, bowed out. She was “too scared,” she couldn’t speak in front of people. Despite all our reassurances, she bolted. For years she stopped coming to Lydia’s House at all.
Trying to get my manuscript ready to take to the writer’s conference this month, I am overwhelmed with the wretchedness, the amateurishness of my work. How can I possibly compete with the “real” writers and illustrators? I struggle and struggle with one especially difficult drawing where a boy shrinks. I think it looks like shit. People are bound to regard it (and me) with contempt. I start sweating. My fingers ache. I stand over the drawing, trying to bully it into line. Now the boy looks like a alien. A very boring, amateurish alien.
Finally, much like the Lydia's House speaker, I shut off the annoying soothing music I’d put on and stumble into the living room where I sit till midnight reading about Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. (“Ah, the cost of unmitigated ambition!”) At least I didn’t light into a strawberry milkshake. But I feel ashamed: “Stupid, lazy fool!”
Maybe I should forget the whole writing thing. After all, one of the cats peed in both dining room and laundry room weeks ago and I still haven’t found time to clean it. Wouldn't it feel comfortable to just go back to being a little housekeeper? Isn't the life of a cat-pee cleaner as worthy as that of novel writer?
But, I argue, I’ve lived my whole life that way, hiding my light under the tiniest of bushels.
Twenty-four years ago a therapist bashed me for not having the courage to publish my work: “How would it be if I just counselled members of my church for free?” (Therapists, take note: this did not help.)
I remember a writers conference where A Famous Author tried to dissuade us all from the writer’s life. “Look at me!” she cried, pointing to her obese frame. “This is what writing did to me!” For thirty minutes she delineated all the ways writing is killing her. Everybody wished she’d shut the hell up.
I’ve written many times about Erasmo, the third grader who loathes reading because he knows he’s a failure. This week he begged me to let him read "a third grade book.” One look at all those big words and he shut the book like Freddy Krueger hid inside. Then wearily Erasmo took out The Fat Cat. I felt for him. Every week he takes home four or five of these books, which his sister informed me he never reads. Why do something that only reminds you that you’re incompetent?
I started my writing/drawing project as a surprise for Erasmo. He still has no idea I’m making something that he can read just for pleasure.(Imagine that!) If I think about nothing but that darling boy, the work flows. Aliens begone.
Slowly I drag out the old drawing board. Without the fear of failure, I work very slowly. Certainly I won’t finish in time for the writer’s conference...
"What is it to work…?
It is to weave the cloth with threads
drawn from your heart, even as if your
beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection, even
as if your beloved were to dwell in that
house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap
the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved
were to eat the fruit."
Kahlil Gibran
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
Mary Oliver
I don’t know what God wants me to do about writing.
Years ago we had three women set up to give a talk for my women’s club. At the last minute one woman, in fact the best speaker, bowed out. She was “too scared,” she couldn’t speak in front of people. Despite all our reassurances, she bolted. For years she stopped coming to Lydia’s House at all.
Trying to get my manuscript ready to take to the writer’s conference this month, I am overwhelmed with the wretchedness, the amateurishness of my work. How can I possibly compete with the “real” writers and illustrators? I struggle and struggle with one especially difficult drawing where a boy shrinks. I think it looks like shit. People are bound to regard it (and me) with contempt. I start sweating. My fingers ache. I stand over the drawing, trying to bully it into line. Now the boy looks like a alien. A very boring, amateurish alien.
Finally, much like the Lydia's House speaker, I shut off the annoying soothing music I’d put on and stumble into the living room where I sit till midnight reading about Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. (“Ah, the cost of unmitigated ambition!”) At least I didn’t light into a strawberry milkshake. But I feel ashamed: “Stupid, lazy fool!”
Maybe I should forget the whole writing thing. After all, one of the cats peed in both dining room and laundry room weeks ago and I still haven’t found time to clean it. Wouldn't it feel comfortable to just go back to being a little housekeeper? Isn't the life of a cat-pee cleaner as worthy as that of novel writer?
But, I argue, I’ve lived my whole life that way, hiding my light under the tiniest of bushels.
Twenty-four years ago a therapist bashed me for not having the courage to publish my work: “How would it be if I just counselled members of my church for free?” (Therapists, take note: this did not help.)
I remember a writers conference where A Famous Author tried to dissuade us all from the writer’s life. “Look at me!” she cried, pointing to her obese frame. “This is what writing did to me!” For thirty minutes she delineated all the ways writing is killing her. Everybody wished she’d shut the hell up.
I’ve written many times about Erasmo, the third grader who loathes reading because he knows he’s a failure. This week he begged me to let him read "a third grade book.” One look at all those big words and he shut the book like Freddy Krueger hid inside. Then wearily Erasmo took out The Fat Cat. I felt for him. Every week he takes home four or five of these books, which his sister informed me he never reads. Why do something that only reminds you that you’re incompetent?
I started my writing/drawing project as a surprise for Erasmo. He still has no idea I’m making something that he can read just for pleasure.(Imagine that!) If I think about nothing but that darling boy, the work flows. Aliens begone.
Slowly I drag out the old drawing board. Without the fear of failure, I work very slowly. Certainly I won’t finish in time for the writer’s conference...
"What is it to work…?
It is to weave the cloth with threads
drawn from your heart, even as if your
beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection, even
as if your beloved were to dwell in that
house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap
the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved
were to eat the fruit."
Kahlil Gibran
Saturday, August 8, 2009
In Case No One Can Tell, I Am Neurotic. The Only Cure is For Me to Tell You About It.
Next week my cousin and her daughters are visiting from NY. They’ve never been to California before, so a trip to Yosemite is in order. I also thought about taking them for a steam train ride outside the park.
But then my husband hates the idea of the train ride. He’s not even keen to go to Yosemite. He insists we take them hiking in the High Sierras instead.
I panic.
In alcoholic homes we learn to discount our perceptions and tolerate abuse. All my life I’ve been told that I have no common sense, that I do everything wrong. It doesn’t help that I married the kind of guy tells me I put dishes away in the wrong order.
Despite my feminism, I still carry within me the resounding attitude of “Men Always Get It Right.” This was Accepted Truth for my first twenty years. Beliefs like that just don’t go away when society changes--they stick in you, crowding in at inopportune moments. Like when planning this trip. How do I tell who is right here--me or JR?
I ask the advice of two friends who tell me, “Do it your way.” Still I can’t move. What if I’m wrong and everybody has a bad time? What if JR gets mad?
Meanwhile I need to make arrangements quick because time is running out.
“You see?” says my brain, “You are a loser because you’re not taking care of this.” (This is the way folks talked to me as a kid. It never fixed anything, but I still carry on the tradition.)
I think, “This is JR's fault for always being so critical of me. Tomorrow I’m splitting with my half of Community Property.”
But first I need to decide about the cousins.
The Amazing Solution
Finally I sit down at kitchen table and imagine I am my own loving mother, the kind I needed as a kid. I tell myself, “Look at wonderful you, sitting at the kitchen table. I approve of you, I bless you. You don’t have to do it perfect."
Immediately I know just what to do: Take the train ride, see Yosemite, skip the High Sierras. I call, make reservations (scared to death it’ll be too late and the person on the phone will sneer at Stupid Me. But there's plenty of room.)
I call JR and say, “I know you wanted to do it your way, but I need to develop the confidence that comes from doing what I think is right.”
Bless him, he says the magic words: “If it makes you happy, I’ll be happy.”
Total Triumph!
Virgin mother bless me, so vagrantly insecure.
I need your assurance
No one is mad at me.
I can breathe.
Just guide and accompany me
My faery Queen, my loving support,
Mother Over All
Guide me, nourish me, bless me.
But then my husband hates the idea of the train ride. He’s not even keen to go to Yosemite. He insists we take them hiking in the High Sierras instead.
I panic.
In alcoholic homes we learn to discount our perceptions and tolerate abuse. All my life I’ve been told that I have no common sense, that I do everything wrong. It doesn’t help that I married the kind of guy tells me I put dishes away in the wrong order.
Despite my feminism, I still carry within me the resounding attitude of “Men Always Get It Right.” This was Accepted Truth for my first twenty years. Beliefs like that just don’t go away when society changes--they stick in you, crowding in at inopportune moments. Like when planning this trip. How do I tell who is right here--me or JR?
I ask the advice of two friends who tell me, “Do it your way.” Still I can’t move. What if I’m wrong and everybody has a bad time? What if JR gets mad?
Meanwhile I need to make arrangements quick because time is running out.
“You see?” says my brain, “You are a loser because you’re not taking care of this.” (This is the way folks talked to me as a kid. It never fixed anything, but I still carry on the tradition.)
I think, “This is JR's fault for always being so critical of me. Tomorrow I’m splitting with my half of Community Property.”
But first I need to decide about the cousins.
The Amazing Solution
Finally I sit down at kitchen table and imagine I am my own loving mother, the kind I needed as a kid. I tell myself, “Look at wonderful you, sitting at the kitchen table. I approve of you, I bless you. You don’t have to do it perfect."
Immediately I know just what to do: Take the train ride, see Yosemite, skip the High Sierras. I call, make reservations (scared to death it’ll be too late and the person on the phone will sneer at Stupid Me. But there's plenty of room.)
I call JR and say, “I know you wanted to do it your way, but I need to develop the confidence that comes from doing what I think is right.”
Bless him, he says the magic words: “If it makes you happy, I’ll be happy.”
Total Triumph!
Virgin mother bless me, so vagrantly insecure.
I need your assurance
No one is mad at me.
I can breathe.
Just guide and accompany me
My faery Queen, my loving support,
Mother Over All
Guide me, nourish me, bless me.
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