There are many factors, situations, incidences, or even people that can cast a dense layer of fog over one's view of the world. You may think that once you have your life, your path, yourself all figured out from now on it's clear horizons into old age...
WRONG!
If anything, the opposite is true. I have discovered in recent months that as soon as I nestled myself into a comfortable modest existence with a clear view of what I wanted for my life, it was as if the forces of the universe sprung into immediate action with the sole mission of trying to derail me. Here I was, riding high on the satisfaction that washes over a person that has found their passion and direction in life, and it was as if Life (that bitch) said to me, "Oh, yeah? You sure about that?"
Derail me she did. Life was able to throw up a number of road blocks in my path to success and happiness; and I crashed into every single one of them going 120 miles an hour.
I'm struck with an image of a snow globe. Inside that little glass ball there is another world. It may be the skyline of New York City or children ice skating on a frozen pond, but whatever the image inside the globe may be it represents a world within a world. It is protected by the forces of the outside world by a fragile shield of glass.
I see my vision of what I want for the remainder of my life as a snow globe. It's a dream, a goal that exists in a tiny glass
sphere. I can look at it longingly but I haven't been able to reach it yet. For many months I held that dream in my hands and took it everywhere.
But as time passed I started to get distracted. I would forget to carry that metaphorical snow globe with me some days. Eventually the dream started to collect dust as it was neglected completely. There were even situations that threatened to shatter the globe into an unfixable pile of rubble.
What started as minor distractions grew into habits that stopped just short of transforming into a lifestyle. I ignored the nagging voice that was either coming from somewhere in the depths of the logical part of my brain or perhaps from my laptop- or maybe they were ganging up on me. Either way, I blew them off. I was having fun and living it up while I was still in my twenties and had minimal responsibilities. I was denying myself one monumental truth, however: I had a responsibility to myself and Brandon.
I owed myself and I owed my husband the respect of making something of myself and not letting my goals and dreams fade into a fog of hedonistic, dead-end indulgences. I always considered myself a strong a resilient person; some days I would even say stubborn. But somehow my inner weakness took over and lead me in a dangerous direction. My life was thrown completely off balance and I soon discovered that I was no longer seeing things clearly. My snow globe was covered in dust so thick I almost couldn't see what was inside, my inspiration and clarity had become dull and faded under the weight of the fog, and my passion had all but packed up and vacated the premises.
The next article has been published to Suite101. I'm very interested in reader feedback- as this issue I have presented may spark some interesting conversation.
Go have a read and let me know what you think. Brace yourself because the secret's out:
Attention is to Women What Sex is to Men
Writing is art. You can't tell me that Kurt Vonnegut, Joseph Heller, Faulkner and Hemingway weren't true artists in every sense of the word. These guys, and many other writers, are regarded as heroes. They inspire and evoke a complete spectrum of emotions through their written words.
However, there is a sad truth that I have recently come to realize all too intimately; art is painful. Artists suffer to create, because you have to show emotion to evoke emotion. The creation is a reflection of the artists soul; put on display for the whole world to see. This is no small thing. Imagine taking all of your thoughts, feelings, emotions, secrets, successes, failures, aspirations, and experiences and laying them out for all to see... and judge.
I never considered myself an artist, like, at all. My mom and little brother absorbed all of the artistic talent that happened to be available in our particular gene pool. Creativity? Forget it; I had none. What did I do? I wrote a few stories and some general musings on life. In what crazy reality does that translate to art?
Then I wrote my essay for Glamour. I turned myself completely inside out and ripped apart the dark, deserted recesses of my memory. I took everything, and I do mean everything, that I found there and I shaped it into a creation that I believed to be the best reflection of me, my voice, and my story. After four months of creating this piece, with one simple click of the mouse, it was off. It traveled to the hands of people that are complete strangers. And these strangers will decide if my creation, the fragile product of all my soul-rummaging measures up to their standards. My humble offering will be scrutinized and judged.
Needless to say, after writing that essay I have felt completely deflated. I have been emotionally raw and exposed. It may not make sense, but that feeling of immersing all of yourself into something of your own creation to be shared with the outside world is terrifying in the most satisfying way.
Of course I care if people don't like it. No one wants to give their best efforts and turn out to be terrible. But when I know I've written something that is truly a reflection of myself and articulates my thoughts and my intentions with complete precision, I am satisfied. I am peaceful. And, incidentally, I am also very tired.
I have visited some very dark places in my mind and my memories to create some of my work. It is hard to come back from those places sometimes and remind yourself that everything is going to be OK, and writing about painful emotions will make the piece more vulnerable and relatable. Sometimes it's hard to return to the real world. I guess that's why so many writers lose their minds (ahem... Hemingway). And I'm not really sure if Vonnegut was completely right in the head at any point in his life; but I digress.
So I guess I was wrong about the artistic share of the genetic material. It just took me a little bit longer to discover it. I just never entertained the idea that there could be a tortured artist side of me. I never thought I was that deep. It's funny what you can find out about yourself when you develop the bravery to actually look.
My first online article has been published! This is a very exciting day for me.
That's your cue to go read it!
Enjoy!!!
