A test, of sorts.

[partly]

Part of a new plan.

Write something. Anything. Post it, no matter how lame it it.


Introspection is probably bad for my soul. Mostly because I'm thinking that the answers that I come up with in such soul searching aren’t the type of answers I want at all.

Lately, I've been thinking that I hold myself to unreasonable expectations when I write. It doesn't matter what I'm writing, either. Anything from a journal entry to a new scene in my book. I'm never satisfied with it. It's not perfect. It rambles. It doesn't say what I want it too. It has no heart. It's just like a million other things out there. It's says too little. Or worse yet, it says too much. It's whiny, it's needy, it's a blatant example of someone who has no original thoughts in her head trying to sound clever, which she isn't.

Setting aside the truth -- of lack of -- in all that, I'm left with the question: Do I judge other people's writings as harshly as I judge my own?

I'd say no. Or I'd like to say no. No. I usually cut other people a lot more slack than I'll cut myself.

If I read a post about how someone is having a hard time creating something, I don't see a self-righteous statement calling for others to tell them how good they are. Yet, it doesn't take much for me to see that in my writing.

When I read other people fiction, I see the wonderful things that make it good fiction. When I read mine, I see uninspired words strung together in a laughable excuse for prose.

I suppose that's par for the course for anyone who writes or creates. I just don't want to be that person who snidely cuts apart any creative endeavor she runs across. Some two-bit gossip monger who can't see the good in the wonderful creativity around her. Waxing overly critical on one's own work is a vocational hazard, but maliciously judging other's work, that becomes something else entirely.

Of course, since I don't write anything lately, I guess I don't have to worry about that.

Heh.

There. I will post this despite the fact that I feel it is a complete and utter waste of bandwidth.

Pointless rambling.



But at least I wrote something, huh?

Comments

[donnickcottage.livejournal.com]

The following is my opinion-I am no one really-therefore, take what I say with however much salt you like.

You go way beyond introspection, what you refer to is self abuse. I've read what little of your writing you've offered in the year I've known your nic, and the idea that you're not clever, yet are whiny, lame, unoriginal, needy, heartless and rambling is nonsense. The fact that you somehow think your self judgement is simply over critical, leads me to believe you don't know a twig from a shotgun; but I know better of course, and I think, so do you.

I desperately want people to read what I write; if I didn't, as I've said a hundred times, I'd not post it, period. As it turns out, near anything I write that goes over some mystical page number is ignored in the main, which is quite hard to take as it's the hardest work I know to write readable material, fiction or from memory. I make it very clear through at minimum, inuendo, that I want to be read, yet I repeatedly finish 30 pages and receive zero comments.

I am self critical, my quess is you well know that by now. But I refuse to assume that my art not being responded to is my fault; my gut tells me it's not the material that's the problem, it's people putting their time where their good intentions are, something I have no control over.

Even in my manic depressive world I back off when faced with the unknowable because I well understand I am prone to see the world through a jaundiced eye and could easily drive myself from the pen by unfairly judging everything I do. Imperfect? And so much more yet. Satisfactory?

I am unpublished, not educated in my avocation and have little time in grade as compared to those to whom I would choose to compare myself. I'd have to be a chronic obsessive majoring in unrealistic expectations to think every paragraph measures up, and blindly self absorbed to use false humility to whip myself for being guilty of talentlessness. Yes, I am satisfactory, and that's enough for the moment.

I'm sure I may be out of line but at this point I'll take that chance. You are being incredibly unfair to yourself, and to those of us who care enough to read every word you write. What you think is not par for the course, it's crucifixion masquerading as self doubt. Let's be obvious, telling me you suck tells me I'm a fool for thinking you don't, and love, I'm no fool.

My opinion is this. You are clever and creative, your descriptions are marvelous and unique, your vocalization is honest and your ideas are fresh albeit part of a genre and so, necessarily restricted in form. You are not perfect, you make mistakes and some sentences you write are less interesting than others. You need practice; so does Vonnegut I'm afraid as some works he writes are less interesting than others, so what.

I just don't want to be that person who snidely cuts apart any creative endeavor she runs across. Some two-bit gossip monger who can't see the good in the wonderful creativity around her.

Please don't think I'm being patronizing in saying read the italicized paragraph again, and again in context with what you're doing with yourself. You're not referring to someone like me hon. I don't want your perfection and never did. I only wanted your opinion, maybe your understanding and perhaps your respect; or if nothing else just to know you were there and remotely interested because I considered us peers of a sort. I was honored that you allowed me to read your story, and gratified you took my comments as constructive criticism. It never occured to me you felt as badly as you admit about your work, as I saw nothing in it to lead me down that path.

I like your plan, it's mine as well. If you love writing, write for the love of the craft and stop hammering yourself over the nitty gritty. All good things come...or so I hear.
Give yourself a break lass, instead of critiquing your lung function as it pertains to the oxygenating of your blood, just breathe, deeply, freely...because you can.

You may regret you wrote this post and then that I responded. I will regret neither. Be well mother of Myr, you are blessed far more than you may ever know.

[partly.livejournal.com]

Myr was doing something creative, I can't recall what off hand, but she thought it was terrible and I said, no, that it was lovely. She looked at me like I was out of my mind and said she didn't believe me. After insisting that I really thought it was good, she said that, of course, I would say it's good. I'm her Mom, after all. After assuring her that I wouldn't lie to her no matter I loved her, she accepted my assessment of her work and went back to doing whatever it was she was doing.

Now, I'm aware of the irony of me telling her not to be so hard on herself and pointing out that good in what she was doing, but I also understand the dismissal of positive comment that come from people who love you. They are biased, after all. They have a reason to boost your ego or overlook rough edges.

I also know that particular belief is totally and completely false (not to mention extremely unfair), but like the claustrophobic who, despite knowing nothing bad will happen to them in an elevator, still can't go in one, some small, cynically deranged part of my brain still thinks they may not be telling the truth.

I've always accepted the fact that I'm hard on myself. I've never thought it was that big of a problem, being honest with yourself makes it easier to deal with it from others. That fact that it's gone beyond honesty and into "self abuse" never really occurred to me. Maybe I took that last step and moved from perfectionist to masochist and never noticed.

Mind you, I've always known that I tended to be more brutal then honest when I indulged in a little "brutally honest" self-assessment. Most of the time, I can keep the vicious little weasel of self-flagellation pinned down and locked up in some small little soundproof cage. Lately, he's more like a four hundred pound gorilla, sitting anywhere he damn well pleases.

Anyhow to circle back to the opening of this long reply: I greatly appreciate your comments. I also consider us to be peers -- even friends, despite the fact we have never met. But because we are "internet friends" I find myself accepting what you say with less reservations than I would apply to my "real life" friends. And I know that, too, is more than a little twisted (and unfair), but since I'm making it work for me, I'll go with it.

I love the lines I'd have to be a chronic obsessive majoring in unrealistic expectations to think every paragraph measures up, and blindly self absorbed to use false humility to whip myself for being guilty of talentlessness and it's crucifixion masquerading as self doubt because both fit my attitude as of late. There is no glory in suffering when you do it to yourself and false humility is as much a lie as self-grandeur.

I think I need to go hunt down a cage for a four hundred pound gorilla. :-)

Thanks for listening. Thanks for replying. And thanks for not being a fool.

[donnickcottage.livejournal.com]

I well know the trouble in accepting local praise. My mother thought I was the greatest dj that ever lived, though she'd never heard me actually on the radio. From that day on I've switched off the happy talk and only accepted the twins Digs and Smarmy from friends and family.
My poor wife, my biggest supporter, encouraged me to write from the get go when all she had to base her opinion on was a series of whiney letters to a former friend, masked as topical lj posts. She's read most everything I've written, or sat patiently as I read pages on pages aloud to her, she's continually offered critique in spite of the fact that I'm not very kind about being told when I suck...and yet I blow her comments off as often as not, as if she couldn't possibly be honest, as if even though our marraige is based on trust, I can't believe a word she says.

Luckily though it may hurt her feelings a bit, she doesn't make it into anything more than a slightly enlarged molehill. As for me, I'm not real bright to overlook her critiques, bias or no; and someday I hope to get beyond my predjudice and geve her just due.

Anytime lass. And anytime you want a kick in the pants, lemme know.