When someone at a dinner party or networking event or wine bar asks the inevitable ‘so what do you do?’ I often casually lie. My favourite imaginary profession is that I work for a paint company and choose the names of colours. I can then laugh this off with a reference to his tie being a lovely shade of Yellow Snow or An Affair in Red Square or Plum Crazy (context specific). And then change the subject. I have always resented that question as the last port of call for the conversationally bereft. I NEVER ask that question.
Unravelling this week, is about reflections of ourselves and the roles we play in our lives. And while friend, lover, sister, daughter, colleague, blah is my obvious list, I have been thinking about the role of the little editor who lives inside my brain. This role is something I play on an almost daily basis (hourly during the menses, oh yeah) and it’s the critical, judgey, negative bit of myself that I reserve especially for me, like a beautifully wrapped bag of shit left on my doorstep.
‘What if I never settle down? I feel like I am chasing ghosts, chasing things that don’t exist anymore, trying to find a place where I belong. It’s not going to be as a mother, so if not that, then what? I know I want to find something, that I am on this (probably ridiculous) quest. Like a fucking hobbit or something. I think it has to do with my job, but its bigger than that, its about my purpose, the big why question: why am I here? What am I REALLY meant to do. Sometimes I think I miss the comfort of being sad. That big ball of overwhelming grief was a way of defining who I was. I have left that behind. Mostly. But sometimes it calls me back. There is something safe about that maudlin, cynical, me. I want to do something that fills me up but I don’t know what that is. I want to write but I don’t believe I can do it. There I have said it. I want to write but I don’t trust my voice. I am lazy and I don’t finish things. How could I finish a book? And all these notes and ideas, these bubbles of creativity that are on this laptop, even if I did write something what if no one read it? I mean have you seen the current state of publishing?!’
Deep breath stream of consciousness, but that’s what it sounds like. I have written about this before, but the quite massive realisation I have had today, is that the little editor who lives inside my brain IS me. The negative, doubtful, frightened me. It’s a role I chose to play: er go I can un-choose it. And then maybe, one day, I can ditch the role of Paint Colour Tsar, and actually say who I am and what I do?
Update: holy crap I just googled inner editor. I feel better just knowing this is a ‘known disorder’.
Comments
One could argue that you write, therefore you are a writer. What is inarguable however is that you are a good writer, there is simply no question about it.
Don’t doubt yourself, no matter the complexity or difficulty of the writing, you can do it because you are creative and want it bad enough, right? And yes, it’s a tough market but if you tell it your way, in a way that you know will appeal to the market and do the best job that you can, who’s to say it isn’t art?
I like a bit of ‘internal editor’, it keeps me true to myself. As for chasing ghosts, mine are wondering if I’ll ever have kids.
Sorry to ramble, but a very thought provoking post.
My little editor sounds scarily like yours! I guess we just have to learn to ignore it.
I am a serial self-editor; it is impossible to completely let go of anything. My (real person) editor wrestles work off me and won’t let me have it back because she knows that’s the only way she could turn it in to a ‘finished article’. My quotation marks. :-)
Hi by the way. Here via Jo @ Don’t Eat.