Me and my shadow
I saw this painting somewhere, maybe in a Proustian questionnaire in the back of a magazine. It was before it made its appearance in Knives Out. I bought a print of it immediately, a boy climbing through the canvas, to either go out, or to come in, who knows? It’s title, Escaping Criticism is something many of us long to do.
Sometimes, I catch myself, lowering my head, or expectations, all of those things, in an effort not to be found out as a fraud, or just a lame, no-talent, two bit hack. But now, I must confess, beginning the submission process of my second novel, that rather than be ignored, I want to cry out, “Just reject me, please!” The idea of any response, (even being accused of not really being a writer) however critical, is more than welcome.
The reasons to pass, to not attempt anything, really, far outweigh the reasons to sally forth. But when I think on that long enough, this idea of being inert, deferring an attempt to brave the unknown rather than landing unceremoniously on one’s face or ass or both seems pretty uninteresting.
It’s come to me only recently. I’m nearly 60, well, 59 to be accurate- but that seems a dumb age, like being 29 or something- that what my brother calls, “Racing toward the unknown” is far better, far more enticing than just staying home, which I do, even if I’m not writing, very nearly all the time.
To the Unknown!
Imposter syndrome, a feeling that even the great can identify with. Darling, you are in good company!
So true! That voice. It's just a voice.