Comparisons: "Get off me!"

I know this post is supposed to be on writing insecurities but this week I could just as easily write about painting insecurities—the principles are the same. These past few days, I've spent a lot of time studying the portrait of Marlena I just completed, and I really love her. I captured the innocence and beauty of her character, and so by that standard, the project was a success. I feel good about it—really good...until...I look at Pascal Gentil's painting*...now my painting lacks luster and well, I begin to realize what an amateur I am...Please don't misunderstand; I'm not slamming my own work, and I'm not begging for reassurance. I'm simply being realistic. (Yes, I promise to get that short-term Empowerment Therapy!)

...This is where the writing analogy comes in...

I feel really good about my novels, until I start comparing them. It might be my story line or characters or the actual writing—doesn't matter. As soon as I put someone else's writing beside mine, the first thing I notice are the flaws in my own work. If I can, I go back to the drawing table/keyboard and make improvements. That's fine! But more than likely, I'll only be indulging my propensity for overworking a project—it's the paper, scrubbed and so saturated with paint and water that it begins to peel. It's the never-ending edits and revisions, tweaking characters to the point that they scream, "Get off me!"

At some point I have to say, this is mine, it's complete and I own it and I love it for what it is, in spite of the flaws. This is such a basic concept—the earlier in life we learn it, the better. Comparing ourselves—our life, our work, our progress or lack of it, our dreams and expectations—to anyone else is counterproductive. It's easy to justify comparison as that which spurs us to greater achievements, and sometimes it does, but such a shaky foundation leaves us too vulnerable. We will constantly need external reassurance and will always be standing on the edge of that slippery slope of mental/emotional malaise.

Just say NO to comparisons! "Get off me!"

This post is part of the Insecure Writer's Support Group, sponsored by Alex J. Cavanaugh.


* Edited to say that I just found Pascal Gentil's Website only to discover his "painting" is in fact a digitally enhanced photograph, which takes a great deal of talent and in no way diminishes my esteem of his work. Oh my, how I'd love to paint many of his subjects! And in a way, it makes me feel all the better about my work.

Dumbbell Syndrome

She is sitting. The dry grass bristles beneath her little hands. On either side of her, she can see patches of concrete alternating with dormant lawns all up and down the street of ticky-tacky houses. She’s in a carefree, three-year-old state of mind, thinking only of her playmate a few houses down. She sings her name as loud as she can, over and over. From the house next door, a man steps onto his front stoop. Whiskers pepper his chin and strands of hair hang from one side of his balding head. His face plumps as his eyes squint.
“Shut up, ya dumbbell!” His words startle and silence her.

Although she does not know what a ‘dumbbell’ is, in that moment, she does know three indisputable realities. She is a dumbbell. She knows a dumbbell is not good. And she is all at once aware that everyone else knows she is a dumbbell.

She is immobilized. She cannot cry, though she wants to. She remains perfectly still; perhaps no one will notice the dumbbell still sitting on the grass. She sits there for a very long time.

***
She boards a Greyhound on Long Island, venturing off on her own for the first time. She is headed to New Hampshire to visit her brother. A trip all by herself feels precarious, but she’s doing it anyway. She is eighteen after all—practically grown up. In Hartford, Connecticut, she needs to switch buses. A Vermont Transit Bus parks in the spot where she believes she should board, and so she does.

As soon as she takes a seat, and as she watches the driver ready to put the bus in gear, she is overcome with panic. Is this the right bus? She reads Vermont Transit overhead, but she is headed to New Hampshire. She should ask the driver if the bus stops in Claremont, but she cannot make herself move, let alone speak. Somewhere inside she hears a voice, Shut up ya dumbbell!

For five hours, stop after stop, she is immobilized, never knowing until the last moment if she will ever arrive at her destination.

***
She reads a review of her writing, something she has bravely poured her heart and soul into. Her chest pounds with such discomfort that she stops breathing. She is reading a blur of isolated words strung together with venom. They make no sense and she squints harder, trying to understand. Now, they come into focus. Shut up ya dumbbell!

The Inner Critic

As writers and artists, we have one. I never realized whose voice it was—telling me that my work wasn’t good enough, that I needed to stretch beyond my comfort zone. She actually sprung out of my subconscious and took form in one of my novels, though I didn’t recognize her as such at the time. She hovers over me, whether I’m painting or writing…

Let me introduce you to Marvelle, by way of an excerpt…

Leila hunched over her work, sitting before the garden’s centerpiece, a Grecian maiden perched in a dried-up fountain. Spanish moss grazed the greenish patina of her shoulders, glowing in the gradient light of late afternoon. She loomed as guardian over Leila. Her watchful eye seemed to alert the artist to unwanted attention approaching from behind.

Sensing an intrusion, Leila arched her aching back and quit with her paintbrush. She pulled the paper block to her chest. Cocking her head, she met an old woman’s piercing eyes.

The matron frowned, folding her arms and taking an abrupt suck from her cigarette. Standing less than five foot, the well-into-her-eighties matron swept a strand of white hair up and poked it into the knot crowning her head. She drew a long drag from the cigarette that doubled as a gesturing baton, leaving a thin trail of smoke. “Well?”

Leila wondered if this might be Marvelle. She clutched her work even tighter.

The old woman flicked her butt to the grass. Grinding it under foot, she thrust out her hand with all the authority of God.

“Don’t be ridiculous, child! Let me see!” Her smoker’s voice chopped with a Bostonian inflection.

Taken aback, Leila glowered at the encroachment while sizing up her opponent. A long, loose-fitting tunic hung from a buttoned neckline and square shoulders, covering most of her shapeless trousers. She looked well on her way to the grave, and yet Leila hesitated to disobey.

Crooked fingers snatched the tablet and held it at a distance, then brought it closer to her spectacles. “You’re overworking it, child.”

“Yeah?” Leila stated, regarding what had always been obvious to her.

“And you’re including too much detail.”

“I like detail.”

“That’s fine, da’ling, but until you can make your point with a few strokes you have no business with detail. You haven’t earned the right.”

Leila’s attention darted from fierce wrinkles to her own disappointing efforts. Was this feisty and officious bit-of-a-woman the ‘dear old soul’ of whom her had grandmother spoken?

“Your perspective, however, and proportions are impeccable. Perhaps you ought to stick with sketching, and not waste your time with paint.”

“I like to paint.”

“Could have fooled me. You look as uncomfortable as a cat in a shoebox, and your work is as passionless as a peck on the cheek.” She wielded the pad as though swatting mosquitoes, and then shoved it back at Leila. “You can’t tell me you’re happy with this.”

“I wasn’t expecting a great work of art. It’s just a pastime.”

“Rubbish! What prevents you from greatness?”

“What?” Wide-eyed, and then with a squint, Leila sat erect.

“Fear—that’s what! When you’re ready to own up to it, come and see me, da’ling.” With that old woman spun on her heal and jauntily headed back toward the house, belying any readiness for the grave.

For all intents and purposes, Marvelle could be standing over my shoulder as I type, trying to form a story. She always sees the flaw, but I think she also sees the potential.

Is your inner critic ‘cruel…but fair?’ Does she ever allow you any peace or gratification?