Sometimes things make me cry.
This may seem like a perfectly natural statement for a woman to make. But the thing is, completely unnatural things make me cry. Things that no person ever cries at. Things that most people think are ridiculous, or at least, incidental. Things like well written blog posts. And in movies when the little guy succeeds and everyone bows to him (i.e. Return of the King, Mulan, Centerstage). The reason I am swallowing my shame and admitting these things is that a. only three people I know of will see this post, and b. I have discovered something that connects these two seemingly disconnected ideas: the fact that I want to be special.
Now, I am aware that as an individual on this planet I am politically correctly considered unique. I know that there are wonderful people in my life who consider me very special indeed. What I am getting at, completely without self-deprecation, is that I am largely talentless. When people get up and start performing "weird talents" I have nothing. I can't flip my eyelids inside out, I can't speak any obscure languages, I can't perform magic tricks, and I don't have any double jointed appendages. Moreover, I don't necessarily want to be able to do any of those things. I have a great desire to achieve things, create things, make a difference in things, and yet, I seem to lack the technical proficiency to make those dreams come true. I seem to be oppressively, inescapably normal. This is something I have struggled with my whole life. This is why, when I visit a particular friend's (she is a writer) blog, I am not only so very proud of her for having the ability to create something so beautiful, but also intensely jealous that I am completely impotent to do the same thing.
That being said, I excel in literature. I know how to analyze it, pick it apart, and take out the best of what is there. (Of course, there is no real standard of measuring this ability, since "the best of what is there" is totally subjective.) So I must raise the question:
How is it that I am superlatively able to recognize literary genius but utterly incapable of recreating it?
I have never harbored a strong desire to be a writer. It is a lot of work, a lot of toil, a lot of putting yourself out there and being kicked in the face. I prefer to be the one doing the kicking, which is why I have, perhaps foolishly, decided to pursue a career in editing. What I would like to do, and what I project on to my desire to write, is a great yearning to create something beautiful. Something that makes people stop, take notice, and say, "I wish I could do that." Something that speaks for people and affects them on an emotional and intellectual level.
I have been so far totally frustrated in this goal. I have yet to manage to create something truly imaginative. Though I have managed to begin life as a drudge of the corporate world easily enough.
Then one of my coworkers brought to my attention that this may be something I can control. And that though writing is a hobby rather than a profession for me, perhaps I can still undergo the same "working on my craft" that real writers use. So, in an effort to finally become the fish with shiny scales, I have undertaken a quest to learn all I can about being a good writer--outside of my opinion as an editor. And maybe someday, someone will like what I write. Or maybe they won't. But at least they will notice it.
This may seem like a perfectly natural statement for a woman to make. But the thing is, completely unnatural things make me cry. Things that no person ever cries at. Things that most people think are ridiculous, or at least, incidental. Things like well written blog posts. And in movies when the little guy succeeds and everyone bows to him (i.e. Return of the King, Mulan, Centerstage). The reason I am swallowing my shame and admitting these things is that a. only three people I know of will see this post, and b. I have discovered something that connects these two seemingly disconnected ideas: the fact that I want to be special.
Now, I am aware that as an individual on this planet I am politically correctly considered unique. I know that there are wonderful people in my life who consider me very special indeed. What I am getting at, completely without self-deprecation, is that I am largely talentless. When people get up and start performing "weird talents" I have nothing. I can't flip my eyelids inside out, I can't speak any obscure languages, I can't perform magic tricks, and I don't have any double jointed appendages. Moreover, I don't necessarily want to be able to do any of those things. I have a great desire to achieve things, create things, make a difference in things, and yet, I seem to lack the technical proficiency to make those dreams come true. I seem to be oppressively, inescapably normal. This is something I have struggled with my whole life. This is why, when I visit a particular friend's (she is a writer) blog, I am not only so very proud of her for having the ability to create something so beautiful, but also intensely jealous that I am completely impotent to do the same thing.
That being said, I excel in literature. I know how to analyze it, pick it apart, and take out the best of what is there. (Of course, there is no real standard of measuring this ability, since "the best of what is there" is totally subjective.) So I must raise the question:
How is it that I am superlatively able to recognize literary genius but utterly incapable of recreating it?
I have never harbored a strong desire to be a writer. It is a lot of work, a lot of toil, a lot of putting yourself out there and being kicked in the face. I prefer to be the one doing the kicking, which is why I have, perhaps foolishly, decided to pursue a career in editing. What I would like to do, and what I project on to my desire to write, is a great yearning to create something beautiful. Something that makes people stop, take notice, and say, "I wish I could do that." Something that speaks for people and affects them on an emotional and intellectual level.
I have been so far totally frustrated in this goal. I have yet to manage to create something truly imaginative. Though I have managed to begin life as a drudge of the corporate world easily enough.
Then one of my coworkers brought to my attention that this may be something I can control. And that though writing is a hobby rather than a profession for me, perhaps I can still undergo the same "working on my craft" that real writers use. So, in an effort to finally become the fish with shiny scales, I have undertaken a quest to learn all I can about being a good writer--outside of my opinion as an editor. And maybe someday, someone will like what I write. Or maybe they won't. But at least they will notice it.
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