Vulnerability soars

I published my first post ever yesterday.  I was left with such an exposed feeling after I published it that I wanted to immediately stop being me and instead magically be the writer who knew what the hell she was doing.  It was a sickening feeling, but I knew I had to ride it out because I am acutely aware that nothing can come of nothing.  And I’m tired of doing nothing.

So thank you to “the novelist”, who saw my request for feedback on the Community Post.  There was no comment, just an encouraging “like”, enough to connect me to something out there.  I went to their blog and the very first post I read included the following:

From the pages of achronicleofkarma.wordpress.com

My last words for any new writer:

Just take the first step and pen down a few words at a time about what you believe in. Chances are, others will believe in it too. Not everyone will like or compliment your work, as that’s just the nature of the world. You cannot please everyone. Never judge yourself as you are writing. Trust what is coming through, as you can always go back to proofing your work when you’ve completed what you’ve set out to do. Be patient with yourself, because it takes time and perseverance to accomplish anything.

It’s good to have a dream, but keep it realistic. Don’t write to become the next millionaire author, because it’s very unlikely many of us ever will. But simply write because it’s what you love to do. If it’s meant to be published, that will take its own natural course. You just do the work and the rest will unfold in time. When you’ve reached thus far as to start approaching publishers (if you don’t take the self-publishing route), never start doubting your ability to write, because of rejection letters. Try not to take it personal.

I can’t stress enough to have someone other than yourself, (preferably someone with a good acumen of the English language) looking at your finished draft. You would have to be that exceptional a writer, to spot your own flaws and mistakes. Keep going; you never know where the journey will take you.

All the very best on your journey and wishing you all success 🙂

The universe gave me just what I needed.  Doesn’t it always?

Soundtrack of a Life, the “B-side”

I am a sad person.  Not sad in the pathetic way, although I feel that way too sometimes.  I mean, I just get sad.  We all do, I’m sure, but it seems to be my default emotion.  And for good reason it would seem, according to my therapist.  But it’s still not easy to accept and tolerate in myself.  I expect I should feel more optimistic about something, only to discover it actually saddens me.  I expect to be able to conquer this long run of sadness, but I don’t think it’s really going to happen.  As a matter of fact, unsurprisingly considering my tendency toward negativity, I believe it is only going to get worse.

There are so many factors that have led to my way of looking at things, many of which are subtle or incredibly complex.  But an easy one to pinpoint is the death of my father eight years ago.  There was a “before” and there has been an “after”, and they are separated, seemingly permanently, as two distinct lives I have lived.  Only someone who has lost a parent can truly understand this separation.  And everyone deals with it differently, naturally.  I see old acquaintances on Facebook, acknowledging anniversaries of a parent’s death, posting pictures commemorating them, and getting comments from people about how great that parent had been and how they missed them too.  This is nice, it feels genuine and correct to me.  And although I can’t see what is actually happening in a person’s life via a post on Facebook, I just get a sense that they are getting through it.  That they are not afraid to seek support for their pain, and that they are getting cyber love and prayers.

I see this, I think of my own loss, and I feel nothing but sad.  The sadness is not just the sadness of loss, of not having the chance to ever hear my father’s voice again, although that is part of it.  The sadness is loneliness. It is how it is too painful for me to trust the internet world with a photo of my father, a man who was incredibly private and didn’t have many friends. It is the twenty years of suffering that went on before his death, a suffering I can’t sum up with the words “he battled cancer”, or “he suffered a heart attack”.  Saying those words do not imply that it was any easier for those who lost someone to those diseases, not by any means.  But to try to explain what happened, to say he had this issue, then this issue, and then that issue, and then he was doing a little better, and then this issue cropped up and this issue and that issue.  And that ultimately what killed him was his toe.

One toe.

One goddamn hideous blackening large toe that the mere pressure of air upon induced the most pain I had ever seen my father express, despite his stoicism and everything else he had endured.  I guess I could write “he passed away after years of illness when finally he was bested by a toe that would no longer go to market.”   I picked up that sarcasm from him, thankfully.  It is one of the ways to cope with pain and sorrow as an alternative to just diving into the depression abyss.  And I feel a little better, like a nice private joke has been shared between him and me.  And then bam, out of the blue, without my permission (at least consciously), the “feeling a little better” part is blasted away when I suddenly recall that, for all technical purposes, that toe is currently on the top shelf of my craft closet downstairs.