That title alone will alienate a lot of readers. Fortunately for me, I don't have a lot of readers anyway. But the people-pleaser in me still worries about losing my audience. It's not just people pleasing (a trait the feminist in me is not proud to possess). It's also that I don't want to be like Michael Moore, preaching to the choir and alienating the very people whose opinions I'm hoping to change. I'm wary of self-righteousness in political discourse because there's nothing more off-putting, condescending or indicative of a closed mind. Progress necessitates open minds.
I'm trying to be more open-minded. I consider myself an open-minded person, just as I consider myself a feminist. But the more I read and learn about other people's perspectives, the more I question whether I truly make an effort to understand arguments I don't immediately agree with.
I'll admit to being a lazy thinker. In the age of information, it's easy to skim the surface of the issues. To my chagrin, I've discovered great difficulty in completing any article that isn't boiled down to a Buzzfeed list with snarky bullets and plenty of gifs. I've never enjoyed reading on a screen, and my predisposition to anxiety only makes matters worse.
My struggle to focus, to maintain a train of thought, is evident in this post itself. It's frustrating to meander when you're as high-strung as I am. This is no lazy river. I am no falling leaf. This, my mental process, requires the kind of persistent effort that herding cats requires. And it often feels as futile.
The other day, I walked past the room where my boyfriend was writing. He's been working on a novel for a few months now, with a dedication that both impresses me and fills me with envy. As I walked past, I noticed how calm his face looked, his brow unfurrowed and his lips in a slight upward curl, a hint of a smile. It was the face of someone who was enjoying the writing process.
The outrage that welled up inside me in response to his serenity surprised and shamed me. What kind of monster am I that my first reaction to my boyfriend's contentment is anger and jealousy? An angry, jealous monster, obviously. Or, if we want to be all enlightened and healthy about it, a person in the grip of anger and jealousy.
I can't remember the last time writing made me feel happy or peaceful or pleased or amused. I know I've felt those things. I've certainly been pleased with myself, mostly when I'm writing something comedic and frivolous. But the vast majority of my writing leaves me drained, dubious and, at best, relieved to have it finished. I approach the page like a poor swimmer approaches a stormy sea. Unwillingly and by necessity only. What is the danger in writing? Existing in my mind for any length of time. Confronting the self-doubt, the jealousy, the chaos and the judgment is an unpleasant task, to say the least.
It doesn't help that, after spending over an hour there, I find myself eight paragraphs in and nowhere near the topic I set out to tackle.
I meant to write about feminism. That will have to be for another post. I will publish this anyway, because it helps me feel like I accomplished something. I need to validate even my sloppiest attempts at creative self-expression, lest I give up trying.
An afterthought: I only got angry at my boyfriend because I want to be a good writer, a prolific writer, a confident writer. Because I fear that I will never be. And because his success, his discipline, his creative output reminded me of my insecurities as a writer. So I've got that to work on. Little monsters in a field of static.
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