Tags
art, creativity, culture, Editing, hermits, photography, Writing
Unkindly, caustic feelings seem to surface more at night than during the day. Is it because once we are alone and have no other distractions left we stare at the wrinkles in our hands until we start seeing red, rubbery eggs?
My mornings are pleasant regardless of the weather. My afternoons are long, infectious yawns. But my nights are never the same. I expect I will write or paint and pursue other hobbies. Instead I find myself spending too much time watching television, rolling my eyes at another Anime with an uninspiring female protagonist, and feeling my productivity, my commitments, fall somewhere between the cushion seats. I’ve sadly had this happened more often then I should permit, but once you’ve fallen into this routine—a closed jar of pensive, nagging thoughts—getting back on track is not easy.
I had a feeling the other night. I had put off writing longer than I should have, which only exasperated this feeling. My chest started to knot. I hadn’t written anything seriously in a few weeks. I had jotted a few, nonsensical lines in my black, small notebook I take wherever I go, but that is only a temporary fix. After all this is just one aspect of writing. For me to feel happy, I must be actively engaging in the writing process. When I stop prematurely, I’m disappointed. It’s like buying all the ingredients to a recipe you wanted to try but you kept postponing until one night you were ready to give it a whirl, but the ingredients are rotten or have spoiled.
Passivity can be our friend or our worst enemies. When I am doing nothing, sitting still, or falling asleep, I have this feeling in me that is difficult to describe. I’m sure others have felt this. It sometimes makes you drop your head like an anchor into sea of linens and cushions when you’re not sad or angry. The world looks different to you. You’ve undergone some profound transformation, or something, and suddenly you gain a somber form of clarity. Or sometimes it makes you just stare at everything, not with your eyes, but somehow you’re gazing at everything with your stomach, elbows, and hands. I don’t know. There’s no one way to describe this feeling I had the other night. It’s a feeling, damn it. There is no verbally italicizing this.
I found myself grabbing my journal by my dresser. I have several of them. I can’t even remember when I started keeping a journal (I didn’t care about tracking dates back then. It was too much time to think about time.) I still remember my first yellow, spiral journal though. Cheap. Folded at the corners. Two, bulky white numbers painted on it. Faded blue lines on college sheet paper. I wrote more than just my life in it; I crafted stories and thoughts I wasn’t even aware of then. Journal writing was therapeutic for me. It inspired my work and lead me to some remarkable discoveries about myself.
Unlike my first journal, my new journal is a little more sophisticated: milky, tan leather with ink dyed flowers and suede rope tie. By the time I reached for it, I had already spiraled into maddening, self-obsessive thoughts. I couldn’t believe how much time I had spent on other things when I should have devoted it to writing. I folded into myself and retreated to my bedroom. I wanted to write my thoughts down to calm my nerves but instead started to read passages that I had written in the last two years.
I was very surprised.
Failure. Hysterical. Need. Insecure. These words were scattered all over the pages like the stars in the sky. Mind you, I’ve been told by a few that I am my own worst critic, but that is such an overused phrase that it loses meaning after a while. And I’ve always believed that there needs to be a part of yourself that must be able to approach and challenge what you have written from an objective point of view. Reading passages upon passages that you have written about yourself, however, is more convincing than someone telling you “you’re too hard on yourself.”
I obscured my work with myself, nevertheless.
We are told to just write. Ignore your inner critic. Editing comes later. My inner critic had bested me for many reasons. I suppose when you’re a Hermit like me with few friends and writing companions, you value your thoughts and opinions highly and trust them more than others, especially when you work with representational, confessional work where you, the writer/artist, are the subject. I assumed I knew my work better than anyone, so I saw the flaws and areas that needed improvement.
Editing comes later.
This already assumes changes will be made. We already have it in our heads that your initial work will have mistakes and you’re inner critic will take care of it. How easy it is to forget ourselves in our work and treat it as extension of yourself. Isn’t it, though?
Then I remembered something my old art teacher said to me. She whispered, “It’s a great start though.”
Our inner critics make us treat our work like we treat ourselves: harshly and unforgiving. When we pause momentarily to view it, we stop analyzing it as something with
potential and see it as a possible, finished piece. We begin to phrase things in our head like “I need,” or “I could have,” which subverts the whole notion of editing. We begin to focus on ourselves related to the piece instead of the work itself. It’s an easy mistake, but it can leave you unwilling to write for a while. And as I said, if I am not writing, I am not too happy.
I have no doubt that our inner critics can be our best editors for writing. Treat them like a tool. If you find your inner critic working overtime and you’re
avoiding mirrors and ponds, forgive yourself. Forgive it too.
I hope next time I’ll have a painting up (I’ve been a little busy with that, writing my novel, and trying to figure out what to do with all these zucchinis!) I’m very open to suggestions and comments!
If you liked the last photograph, please continue to support my friend, Jacklyn, by checking out her blog at http://interlineasphotography.blogspot.com/2013_08_01_archive.html which shows some of her newest pieces.
My Hermit Sanctum 