Right, so we’ll get to building your sexy ass confidence in just a second, good friend.
First tho, here’s a fun trick to try if you’d like to testyour creative confidence; publish a blog post about erotica, get everybody all seduced and lathered up, and then come back a week later and publish another blog post.
About anything else.
Post about something else – after riffing about touching and stroking and fingering – and expect anyone to give a shit about what could possibly come after all that goodness.
I hear you. I know. But never fear, my love. I’ve got you. I am not afraid.
I have something even hotter to talk about this week, if you can possibly fathom that (I realize a blogger with any sense at all would be concerned about deliberately stacking this kind of dangerous pyramid scheme of expectations but nobody’s here to play it safe, I sincerely hope).
Fair warning, lovers: This one will be very different from the others. (Are you reading this at the office, by the way? Because you might not want to be reading this at the office. But then again, maybe you really do.)
Consistency is divine but so is disruption. So is surprise.
This post is not about how to’s or fixing or changing anything. It’s about feeling.
Feeling, it seems to me, is a precious and increasingly scarce form of artistry. People are numbed out all over the damn place trying to avoid feelings of pain but also, in more cases than we seem to realize, trying to avoid feelings of good honest organic pleasure (because, you know, the guilt and the guilt and the guilt and everything – and then there’s the guilt).
Odd things, we.
Maybe it’s better (more accurate? more tragic?) to say that avoiding our feelings has become a twisted art form in itself.
Somehow, in these overcharged, overstimulating, hyper-sexed times, we end up numb and ashamed when all we really crave is to be touched and awakened.
Incredibly, there’s still a lot of noise on the interwebs about being “authentic” and “keeping shit real” in our lives, in our work, in our relationships, in our swim suits, in our Instagram galleries.
(By the way, whomever started #nofilter, I’m starting #damnrightitsfiltered. If I wanted everything to look like it does on any given pimple-faced Wednesday I’d still be wearing jelly bracelets stacked to my elbows and using those trashable wind-up cameras from the 90’s while getting way over excited that they take pictures underwater now! Stop it. Everything should look like a classic black and white Humphrey Bogart film.)
Of course, some of the noise about keeping shit real comes from yours truly, mind you, so the irony that I’m calling us out on it is not lost on me. Smug-Allison-Marie is even a little proud of that noise because it’s important noise to be making (she believes).
But somewhere amidst the chaotic weirdness of $5 selfie-sticks and $zilliondollar celebrity, we seem to have confused “being real” with being loud, obnoxious, rude, disrespectful, ignorant, and in an obscene number of cases . . . NOT REAL.
So two things right off the top: #1 I’m not talking about jealousy in this post (WTF?) and #2 I’m fully aware that exactly no one wants to talk about shit like this (hence the trickery, but let me explain).
Shit like what, you may well demand to know since I’ve just confessed to the old bait-and-switch title of a blog post which may or may not land me on the wrong side of the tracks with WordPress / Google / Nick Jonas.
It turns out that although we most often think of ourselves as struggling with jealousy (where did you even come from, Nick Jonas?) what we actually struggle with, technically, is envy.
“In this country, we use the words “jealousy” and “envy” as synonyms but they are not. Envy is the feeling of wanting what someone else has. The linguistic root is from the Latin invidia which is connected to the modern word ‘invidious.’ Jealousy is the feeling of wanting to protect what is yours. The linguistic root is from the Latin zelos which is connected to the modern word ‘zealous’.”
But the thing is, no one Googles envy for the same reason no one Googles sloth. (If you do though? The “medium-sized mammal” comes first with adorable photos; the “deadly sin” comes in second. Go figure.)
Lazy sounds like a thing we should probably work on but also feels like fuzzy socks. Sloth sounds like one of both of us should be roaming ancient Jerusalem sacrificing our livestock when shit hits the proverbial fan.
You know how some people have to clean their entire kitchen / office / living room / patio / house / dog house / bird house / neighbor’s house before they will finally just sit down and start doing their creative work?
I’m not one of those people. (Nor do these people ever seem to live next door to me, proving that no good will ever come of this kind of neurosis.)
I can write with a messy kitchen / teetering piles of papers / tipping stacks of half-read books / vases full of but-they’re-so-arty-though dead flowers / unwashed dishes (… you guys can’t actually see me, right?) doing their unkempt thing all around me.
I can write through the Apocalypse. (Done it, actually – see how that turned out here. Spoiler alert.)