My Latest Staggering Work Of Heart-breaking Brilliance

Or, the DELETE button may feel like your best friend....

They like me!! They REALLY like me!!!

• Sally Field

I don’t remember how I first came across Stacy Eskelin on Instagram, only that I did, something for which I’m endlessly grateful. Though we’ve never met (I live in Portland, OR; she lives somewhere in an Italian paradise), there are many commonalities. We’re writers, and we share a disdain for Houston, TX (she’s from there; I lived there for 10+ years- 3722 days…not that I was counting). In addition, we both possess a decidedly warped sense of humor and an artistic sense that one could only describe as…unusual. The list grows as we get to know one another despite being separated by a nine-hour time difference.

It’s good to have people in your life who understand and appreciate the process and stresses of what you do.

The thing about writers is that when you strip away the artifice, we can be quite narcissistic and insecure. We may go to great lengths to camouflage the things that make us grab our security blankie and curl into a ball, but there’s no hiding it. Writers can be immature, narcissistic, and insecure blights on humanity. Despite this, we’re pretty harmless, so releasing us into the general population is relatively low-risk.

I can only presume to speak for myself. However, I think my insecurities aren’t atypical..for a writer who’s not heavily sedated or doing the Thorazine shuffle.

Writing, like most any artistic endeavor, is a lonely pursuit. I spend a lot of time in my head- a dank, cobwebby hovel under the best of circumstances. I’m trying to determine how best to translate what’s spinning in my brain into a coherent, rational format. For a well-adjusted person, this sort of endeavor would be challenging. For someone who’s battled depression his entire life, it can feel like not unlike tap-dancing through a minefield.

How does one translate an idea dislodged from the dark recesses of their brain into something that doesn’t sound like the unmedicated ramblings of a raving lunatic?

I’ll be damned if I know…and yet I somehow manage to do it time and time again without pushing myself over the edge. Last summer, I even finished a book that received a fair amount of positive feedback and even made a few bucks. It turns out that a lot of people think that I can write.

Who knew???

Truthfully, writing is the one thing in my life I’m absolutely confident about. I KNOW can write. For whatever reason, I was bestowed with the ability to string together coherent sentences in a way that people find interesting. That sounds rather clinical, but it’s not, and I’m well aware of that. Playing the guitar, while something I’m decent enough, is, by comparison, a struggle. No other artistic pursuit is anything but aspirational. I can barely draw stick people, painting baffles me, and my attempts at sculpture end up looking nightmarish. Any attempt at woodworking would typically end with me putting two grooves in the finished product so I could call it an “ashtray.”

One might suspect that armed with such self-knowledge, I wouldn’t be just another writer burdened with a fragile ego. And you’d be WAY wrong. Part of it is the nature of the undertaking. By the time I finish and publish this short essay, my process will quite probably have consumed every bit of two hours. Between editing, re-editing, reading, and re-reading, I will have crawled over every word and examined it from every conceivable angle. It will feel like metaphorically disarming a landmine.

Do I cut the blue wire? Or the red one??

When someone like Stacey Eskelin, or another writer or artist, comes along and offers words of encouragement, it’s like a breath of fresh air. Finally, here’s someone who understands and appreciates the process, the frustrations, and the emotional gymnastics that go into writing.

The process can be emotionally wrenching. I will spend two hours or so pouring myself into this essay. Then, once it’s in a form I feel comfortable with, I’ll publish it…and get bupkis in return. In the same way that no one loves you like your mother, no one loves a written piece like the author. You pour your heart and soul into something, release it into the wild with great expectations, and…crickets.

Well, at least the kid didn’t up as a ward of the state….

Suddenly I find myself wondering if anyone’s even paying attention. Does anyone care?

Truthfully, the answer is a resounding “NO!!” As much as I hate to admit that to myself, this essay is important only to me. It matters not at all in the overall scheme of things. In the public discourse, its presence (or absence) will make absolutely NO difference to anyone…except myself.

We’ve all gone to a restaurant where a live band is playing. But, if you look around, who’s actually paying attention to the band? People are talking, eating, and laughing…and almost no one’s paying any attention at all to the music. Sure, the guys in the band might be passionate about their music, but the audience certainly isn’t. That may seem disrespectful- and in a sense it is- but we’ve all done it, right?

Art is of paramount importance to the people creating it, but its intended audience may or may not be otherwise engaged. We may love art. We may consider it something we value. We may even be a patron of the arts. Even so, our collective attention span regarding virtually any artistic endeavor not our own hovers just slightly above zero.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to sweat and stress over this essay any less, of course. It’s just what I do…until I get my next positive feedback fix.