If you’ve ever tripped on your own two feet, you sometimes just can’t help but blame yourself for being so clumsy. I haven’t fallen on this trip, at least not yet thankfully. But the feeling of tripping over my own feet reminds me of how I have been holding my own self back. For years, I’ve put off writing because it seemed like there would always be time for that later. When I would write, I wouldn’t proofread it closely and I wouldn’t really care what kind of grammar I used. I didn’t have faith in myself that someone would actually read the blog, much less scan it to see my potential.
But that was stupid. I know right now I don’t have a huge following. I look at the dismal stats and tell myself that the numbers don’t define my future. What defines my future is my consistency to the approach in going after what I want. I’ve lacked that consistency for a long time and even when I could be consistent, I was sloppy. Sloppily consistent. Consistently sloppy. That’s a recipe for disaster. The bigger shame is that for years, people have told me that I have a God given talent with words. I don’t necessarily see it as a talent until I try to read something from someone who lets me know up front they can’t write. I go back and reread some of the things I’ve written. Sometimes I amaze myself and do a little happy dance because it was actually pretty good. Then there are times when I gag and its those times when I’ve just thrown my hands up.
I have had to come to terms with the fact that I am weird and have a pretty odd sense of humor. When I write, sometimes that sense of humor comes through and I’ve often been fearful of the reaction I’d get. I find myself tempering down my weirdness, my authenticity But how can I ever become the kind of writer I am destined to be if I hide the things that truly make me who I am?
I thought of this last night at our conference dinner when they served some kind of artichokes. To truly understand what I’m about to tell you, you must understand the difference between having an artichoke in Georgia and having one in California. In Georgia, we like our vegetables to be cooked like we’re cooking a tough piece of meat — long enough to ensure it’s dead. We like our artichokes marinated or in a dip with cheese. That is not how they like their artichokes in California. I was excited to try them at first because we are near the artichoke capital of the world, I’m told. I put one on my plate despite the hesitancy when the layers of the artichoke made an audible sound when they went on my plate. Artichokes should not be talking, damnit. We cook them until they can’t in Georgia.
I returned to the table, excited a little less to take the first bite of this vegetable that was, now that I realized it, a color I didn’t even have a word to describe. I took my knife and fork to cut a small portion then put it in my mouth. What happened next can only be described as a plot in a Stephen King novel. If you’ve ever eaten a leaf that had been pressed in a book thirty years ago, then you have a good idea of how this tasted. The crispness still clings in my throat like I’m going to be coughing up bits of artichoke dust into next week. I realized the mistake of putting this in my mouth too late as I was at a table full of my peers and Board members. I had to chew it and God love it, I had to swallow all of it. I chewed for what seemed like an eternity and that seemed ironic in itself. How could something that felt like it would disintegrate be so doggone hard to chew. I kept chewing and I could feel what I could only describe as artichoke veins piercing the inside of my cheeks.
Then it hit me. I realized what eating this devil vegetable was like and my weirdness had the answer. After I chewed and surprisingly successfully swallowed it, I knew I couldn’t contain this comparison. I leaned over to the woman next to me as she asked me how it was and I said, “It is what I imagine eating a fly’s wings would taste like.” She busted out laughing and I wasn’t sure if it was the wine or if it was genuinely funny, but I felt a sense of relief. My weirdness isn’t going to appeal to everyone. When people read my book and see that it has cuss words in it, they may dismiss me as trashy. But the one thing I’ve got to do is to be authentically me. My voice becomes more assured when I’m not changing it to become what someone else should say. If they want to say it, then they need to say it.
I’ve got to stop standing in my own way of achieving my dreams. I shrink so that I can fit into someone else’s idea of who I should be and that’s a dangerous paradigm. I am afraid of “no” so I don’t ask. But not only do I not ask, I don’t try. Like Yoda said, “Do or do not. There is no try.” I have been choosing “do not” but dreams do not come true when you don’t “do.” Dedication to a dream is hard work, especially when you have a blog with only about 20 readers a day, if that. I question myself and start down the slippery path of self doubt. I will never know of my aptitude for success if I continue sloppy consistency or being consistently sloppy.
What is standing in your way today? Are you tripping over your own two feet? Finding the courage to walk inevitably means that we have to have the courage to fall. Just remember that you don’t have to keep tripping over your own two feet.
Messpot Diaries 