Too Much
My vertigo is dizzy.
It’s been a long minute since I wrote anything here on Substack. I have been working on a short story lately, which may or may not appear on these pages eventually. I’m leaning toward it since it is topical with the public discouse. Thing is with Substack or blogging in general, the national – if not global – discourse is all about the train wreck we call our current presidential administration and it’s making me crazy.
Look, I’ve been been glued to it, too. I have been reading a lot about a certain trove of files everyone but a few people in power wants released in their non-redacted form. I fully support the full release. I have been following all the related stories, too. It’s too much, honestly, as the barrage of misinformation followed by the fact-checked counter information piled on top of the disgusting insanity ours out into the ether every other minute. My vertigo has dizziness.
I’ve mentioned imposter syndrome before – somewhere – and I fight with it regularly when it comes to posting here. The idea of writing about the political discourse of our country right now, or politics in general, is nauseating. I’m not a political writer. I have ideas and opinions, and I can react accordingly to breaking stories, but I’m not the best source for go-to information as new stories seem to develop every minute. Nor do I want to be. And politics right now is so damned depressing if not infuriating.
So, I find myself wrestling with the question: what do readers want to see from me if not politics? That’s where imposter syndrome takes its cue and yanks me off stage.
The creative process has a funny way of working. Reactions to some of the political discourse find their way into my fiction writing. Some of it more subtle than others. But that’s not all that manifests. There are happy topics like my love for my wife coupled with the cares and concerns over our recently adopted french bulldog – she’s a puppy mill rescue and the sweetest little soul you’ve ever met.
In my work, though, happiness is always thrown off kilter by other less happy manifestations. The concerns and anxieties around my sick mother slip into stories in unrecognizable forms. Same with the residual grief over the untimely loss of my brother twenty-one years ago. As hard as I work toward creating happiness, grim reality gnaws on my bone marrow when I’m not actively containing it.
As writers we’re taught in our creative and professional lives to write what hurts. This vulnerability reveals our authentic selves. We’re told it moves the reader who shares the stories with others causing it to reverberate around the world and back because each moving human experience is a masterpiece to behold, changing hearts and minds, making children laugh with joy, and introducing sunlight to the darkest depths of the ocean. I’m not entirely sure who is telling this to whom; it lives in the collective unconscious. And in my subconscious, until now as you read this. Point is, as writers, we must be fearless and vulnerable, just not to a fault.
This article or post or whatever format you want to call it is taking on a stream of consciousness flavor. It’s quite self aware and completely unintended.
From this writing exercise I’m taking away two points and I hope you will too:
Don’t be afraid to write what hurts even if it might kill you – it won’t.
Don’t be afraid to write about what you feel you should. Screw the public discourse.
Thank you for taking the few minutes to read this. I know your attention is always under constant demand in this age of constant information. Now that I have broken my fast with this piece I intend to write here much more regularly. Maybe even some topical pieces related to the public discourse.