Gentle readers,
I’ve decided to add the Philosophical Hillbilly category to this site. It will serve as a journal of my thoughts not directly related to rural culture or experiences of the wild sort. I’m oscillating between making it available to everyone or exclusive to paid subscribers. This first one will be a freebie, though. As you can see after reading, I am exposing myself and a small portion of my legion of insecurities. But I’ve never been the pretentious sort. I’ve always figured that sharing my flaws might help others understand theirs and know that they’re not alone.
I've been a full-time writer/editor for more than a decade now, and I still have a terribly tough time actually saying (and believing) that I type words and read for a modest living. When people ask about what I do for a living, I cringe.
There's a full-blown psychological syndrome fueling my feelings. It's called, not surprisingly, imposter syndrome. In summary, I feel like a fake and am positive that everyone's going to find out soon enough when I blow the next project, whatever that may be. Ultimately, my suckiness will be revealed. Readers will laugh. REAL writers will flog me mercilessly for claiming to be one of their tribe.
I’m well aware that this is an affliction visited on many, but it seems that creative types in particular are the most commonly stricken. I don’t know why. Guilt might be part of it. Those fortunate few of us who manage to feed and clothe ourselves with earnings generated through our imaginations are well aware that we don’t have “real jobs” like normal people. Sometimes we feel bad about it. But I digress.
Anyway, this often paralyzing fear of being outed is the reason I procrastinate. And I am a jewel when it comes to procrastinating. Seriously, if I could write like I procrastinate I’d definitely have a Pulitzer or two and probably a best-seller.
Psst… here’s the reason behind the reason:
Apparently, I've fooled almost everyone so far. Hell, I’ve fooled you. But how much longer can I keep up the facade? How much longer will readers dig into my carefully crafted con with its clever use of alluring alliteration (entirely enlisted to obscure) without smelling the bullshit underneath? God knows this next work of words will be the undoing. And what then? Being a fake writer is surely better than the alternative. I'm not even sure what that alternative is. But right now, everyone still considers me a writer. I just need to stand pat. If I don't write anything ever again my secret is safe.
Pretty smart, huh?
No. It’s insane. There is not a quark of logic to be found in any of it.
Neuroticism and self-loathing are also part of the package. I'm a bit obsessive about a lot of things anyway, but the neuroticism sometimes pushes it into warp drive. I don't have a piece of work out there anywhere that I haven't read again and again looking for errors in grammar, structure, logic, or crappy wordsmithing after it was published. And I can always find at least one of those transgressions in all of them. That's when the self-loathing kicks in. I don't know how many pieces I've published but I hate all of them, save maybe three, and I have strong negative feelings about the hack responsible for those three. Even among those few unhated works, I don't really like any of them. I just don't hate them. Nowadays, I try to not read the old stuff… ever.
There's more bad news. The better I get at writing (even though I still think I suck) the more I expect from my work. I’m constantly subconsciously raising the bar on myself. It is the most goddam vicious of cycles.
What this means is that every time I sit down to write I've got to string together words and ideas that project truth in an ever-more dazzling display of eloquence and poetic beauty that "wows" the harshest critic. That critic would be me. Awards, accolades, kind words from strangers: none of that matters. I can never attain the level — of not just competence but brilliance — I feel that should be reached in order to be considered a “good” writer because I think I know enough about what constitutes good writing to know that I can’t do it.
I had a horrible dream the other night. In this nightmare, I'd won a luxury car. Yes, a nightmare about winning a car. You read that correctly.
I’m not a luxury car guy, but this was a car like no other. I don’t recall the details, but it was a car with no peers — futuristic technology… sleek yet voluptuous in all the right places… it might have even been equipped with a Flux Capacitor. Fitting for such an exquisite and unimaginable ride, it had a name composed of symbols unspellable and unspeakable, symbols not found in our alphabet. It was like the Prince of cars. And now that I think about it, there might be some foreshadowing here. Nothing to do with his Purple Majesty, but with those symbols of mystery.
Ironically (you'll find out why soon enough), I won the car by writing an essay. I had to travel to contest headquarters to pick it up, and the only requirement to take ownership was writing my phone number and signing my name on a document.
My first attempt was mostly illegible. Only a few numbers and one letter in my name was recognizable. So I tried again, which was even worse. The quality of my efforts disintegrated from there. Officials at contest HQ thought it might be the tool in my hand instead of the tool wielding it, and offered another pen, and then a pencil, and then every writing utensil in the building -- Sharpies, crayons, magic markers, a paintbrush. Nothing worked.
They then thought it might be the medium and offered different stationery, saying if I could just get it down on something, anything, they could then trace my number and name on the actual contract later. I scribbled on note pads, Post-its, envelopes, book pages, and when I ran through those, even some of their claimed most important paper documents.
Everyone at contest HQ, god bless ‘em, really wanted me to have that car.
But each of my attempts was more horrid than the previous. I could not for the life of me, or even for that fantabulous car, get my hand and my mind in sync. The harder I tried, the worse the results, which led to a compounding of frustration with each futile attempt. Eventually, I collapsed, drawing circles and chicken scratches on the floor with a rock while softly weeping. I mumbled my name and phone number over and over and over again for some time until even my name faded from memory. Then it was just weeping.
Does this sound like a descent into madness? That's what it felt like.
After wiping sleep and maybe some tears from my eyes, I tried to convince myself that the horror wasn't real. But it was. It was, in fact, the most perfect analogy (OK… maybe a little over the top, but just peeking over the rim) to what I experience at the beginning of every article or essay I sit down to write.
And as I sit in front of the blank screen today, the cursor blinking in mockery, I'm already struggling to remember my damn name.
Madness…