*SMILE*
I discovered this while browsing
Memoirs of an Eternal Optimist, an awesome blog
that you really should go check out!
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Confessions of a Sub Par Writer
....or at least I always feel sub par in my mind.
This morning, I woke up amazingly energized (see previous post), and those who know me realize that eventually, this translates into yet another excuse to write something. So, happily humming along to some awesome writing tunes, I began reading over some previously written words, trying to figure out the direction I wanted my writing to take for the day.
Enter a serious case of the blah! The more I read, the more I inwardly laughed at myself, wondering how in the world I ever considered undertaking writing as a career. In my mind, I suck! Trivial words poorly put together usually gain very little sympathy from me. Even when they happen to be my own. The more I read, the more disgusted I become, until eventually, I reach this point:
Of course, at this point I was panicking in that excessive, and often overly dramatic, way that writers panic. My mind began swirling with thoughts of the dreaded dream crusher: maybe I should give up on writing. Throw the pen down before I hurt myself. (And of course, burn all those dreadful old notebooks, to avoid leaving embarrassing evidence). * Insert scream here!!*
Soon, I become this guy, above, staring hopelessly down at the page, as a collection of balled up sheets gather around me. Or blinking helplessly up at the cursor, that sickening stretch of white that is a blank Word document mocking me, in its completeness. The wine doesn't help. The cigarettes don't help. Calling up other writers to complain that I can't write most definitely doesn't help. And for a moment, I consider quiting. (Wonder how much South Pacific deep-sea divers get paid these days?)
But I don't quit. Because I am aware of something. My mind now wanders to an awesome blog post that I recently read that expresses a similar opinion to what I've come to understand. Like Jane Friedman, former publisher and current contributing editor of Writer's Digest, I feel that a successful writer is one who overcomes this feeling that their writing is crap. I also believe that ALL writers, and especially the good ones, hate their own writing, at some point or another. This is the first step.
Why? How can it be good to hate your own work? It's simple, really. If we didn't, how would we ever become better? Athletes don't train harder because they feel they are the best they will ever be. I'm glad I want to burn my old notebooks. In essence, it motivates the opposite. I go through them. I rewrite. I look for those few shining words nestled within a page full of drab. And I take them, bury them in my chest, and use them to remind me that this is what I was born to do.
It's funny how writing mimics life. We take what is there within us, mold it into that which best reflects our sentiments, and then boldly share it with the rest of the world. And quite often, in our sharing, we want to snatch it back, because we feel it is sub par. But this is what motivates us to live better lives. We become better people, doing bigger and better things. Like life, writing evolves.
So I wait a while, before returning to the page. I reread my good words and search for better ones. Slowly, I see the tiny bits of genius roll out. And I smile, knowing that eventually my writing will grow to the heights that it is being primed to reach. Until then, I take the tragic lines in stride. And keep a lot of notebooks hidden in the back of my closet.
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
This morning, I woke up amazingly energized (see previous post), and those who know me realize that eventually, this translates into yet another excuse to write something. So, happily humming along to some awesome writing tunes, I began reading over some previously written words, trying to figure out the direction I wanted my writing to take for the day.
Enter a serious case of the blah! The more I read, the more I inwardly laughed at myself, wondering how in the world I ever considered undertaking writing as a career. In my mind, I suck! Trivial words poorly put together usually gain very little sympathy from me. Even when they happen to be my own. The more I read, the more disgusted I become, until eventually, I reach this point:
I want to break every pencil I've ever owned. I want to take all the notebooks, hazardously sprawled across my bedroom floor, and chuck every single one of them into the bottom of some abyss. I want to hide from my mediocrity, because I know that it just won't cut it. Suddenly, I want to go back to bed.
Of course, at this point I was panicking in that excessive, and often overly dramatic, way that writers panic. My mind began swirling with thoughts of the dreaded dream crusher: maybe I should give up on writing. Throw the pen down before I hurt myself. (And of course, burn all those dreadful old notebooks, to avoid leaving embarrassing evidence). * Insert scream here!!*
Soon, I become this guy, above, staring hopelessly down at the page, as a collection of balled up sheets gather around me. Or blinking helplessly up at the cursor, that sickening stretch of white that is a blank Word document mocking me, in its completeness. The wine doesn't help. The cigarettes don't help. Calling up other writers to complain that I can't write most definitely doesn't help. And for a moment, I consider quiting. (Wonder how much South Pacific deep-sea divers get paid these days?)
But I don't quit. Because I am aware of something. My mind now wanders to an awesome blog post that I recently read that expresses a similar opinion to what I've come to understand. Like Jane Friedman, former publisher and current contributing editor of Writer's Digest, I feel that a successful writer is one who overcomes this feeling that their writing is crap. I also believe that ALL writers, and especially the good ones, hate their own writing, at some point or another. This is the first step.
Why? How can it be good to hate your own work? It's simple, really. If we didn't, how would we ever become better? Athletes don't train harder because they feel they are the best they will ever be. I'm glad I want to burn my old notebooks. In essence, it motivates the opposite. I go through them. I rewrite. I look for those few shining words nestled within a page full of drab. And I take them, bury them in my chest, and use them to remind me that this is what I was born to do.
It's funny how writing mimics life. We take what is there within us, mold it into that which best reflects our sentiments, and then boldly share it with the rest of the world. And quite often, in our sharing, we want to snatch it back, because we feel it is sub par. But this is what motivates us to live better lives. We become better people, doing bigger and better things. Like life, writing evolves.
So I wait a while, before returning to the page. I reread my good words and search for better ones. Slowly, I see the tiny bits of genius roll out. And I smile, knowing that eventually my writing will grow to the heights that it is being primed to reach. Until then, I take the tragic lines in stride. And keep a lot of notebooks hidden in the back of my closet.
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
Oh What a Night!
Good morning world!
This morning greets me with a once lost optimism. I am smiling. I am energetic. I am flirting along those delicious realms of the happy and the joyful. And quite frankly, I missed that shit!!!
Last night I shared a spectacular evening with someone who, more and more, is allowing me to see just what a remarkable and special person they can be. The first analogy that jumps into my mind is a key fitting a lock. Everyone immediately thinks about the effect it has on the lock. But imagine how the key feels!
Some people just have that potential, to make me feel like a key. Like there is a purpose. Like things just fit. And that's a feeling I wish that everyone could feel.
Enjoy your day. May it be spectacular. May it be remarkable. May it contain at least one moment that makes you smile, and think 'I fit.'
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
This morning greets me with a once lost optimism. I am smiling. I am energetic. I am flirting along those delicious realms of the happy and the joyful. And quite frankly, I missed that shit!!!
Last night I shared a spectacular evening with someone who, more and more, is allowing me to see just what a remarkable and special person they can be. The first analogy that jumps into my mind is a key fitting a lock. Everyone immediately thinks about the effect it has on the lock. But imagine how the key feels!
Some people just have that potential, to make me feel like a key. Like there is a purpose. Like things just fit. And that's a feeling I wish that everyone could feel.
Enjoy your day. May it be spectacular. May it be remarkable. May it contain at least one moment that makes you smile, and think 'I fit.'
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Picture It, Rare! (Mar. 02, 2011)
This is a new section of the blog that I'll be adding every Wednesday, just to add some visual spice to everybody's hump day. Feel free to email me your own cool pics or cool pics you find on the web: therarepoet@yahoo.com. (I do not own the rights to any of these photos, but I hope the owners understand my natural inclination towards sharing. If not, and it is desired that I remove any of these, email me immediately.)
Enjoy the pictures!
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
Enjoy the pictures!
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
I Guess I Was Led to Share This
Back in July of last year, I reached a point in my life where I needed to express what I was feeling. Most people who know me probably believe I already do this, far more often than the average person. I imagine they are right. And yet, I found myself full of an aching need. I needed to let some things out. And while I have some wonderful family members and friends, at that moment, I couldn't think of one of them who I felt like talking to. Looking back, I understand there was a reason for this. But in that moment, I felt desperate.
Perhaps encouraged by the main character in one of my all-time favorite books, I reached for a notebook and a pen, and poured out my thoughts onto the page. Timed and dated, I wrote my feelings in letter form. I began the letter Dear God.
It is interesting to me what a soul in need will do, and even more interesting who they choose to turn to. In that moment of helplessness, I chose to turn to God. Not sure what that says about me, but I'm hoping that it is something good.
Fast forward, nearly eight months later. This blue notebook, which I keep in a drawer not far from my computer, now contains several Dear God letters. The dates are stretched out and, although I didn't record the time in them all, I find that I often write them well after midnight. Reflection hours, it has been often said.
A few moments ago, I inadvertently noticed my blue notebook, while looking for something that now eludes my memory. I opened it to an entry, reading the words that sat on the page. And so, I am led to share.
(Names, for the sake of privacy, will not be fully disclosed.)
Jan. 23, 2011
Dear God,
It's been far too long. I really should write to you daily. It amazes me how we find the time for things but fail to just acknowledge your presence. Well, I want to take the time to thank you for everything, period. You are a mighty and awesome God. I give you honor. I give you praise.
Been thinking a lot about T_____ these last few moments. How bad did I let her down? Is this spirit to roam, that kept me from her, my own or a tool of destruction?
Lord I ask that you reveal this to me.
Marcus
----
As I've mentioned on here before, I am a very spiritual person. Even if I don't always put forth the proper efforts, I am a firm believer in God and the love and guidance he gives to each of us. I'm starting to recognize how badly people get caught up in titles and religion. Holding firmly to things they've been taught and told, instead of simply taking the time to feel. God is universal. That's all I'll say on that subject.
I'm more interested in the second part of the letter. That discusses my spirit to roam.
The women of my past all know it well. Something always grabs at me, pulls me from the confines of the familiar and stable, and forces me to run towards the unknown. I feel like there is something in me that just won't allow me to be still. Which means that my heart roams with me, causing far too much wreckage as it moves. Even as I write this, my mind is forced to focus on two women currently caught in the currents of my restless tide. The scariest part of this, is accepting the possibility that this something is me. Maybe I'm the one forcing myself to roam, which means I'm ruining my own chance at happiness. This is a painful thought.
I don't want to destroy me....
Maybe that's why I write so much on this same subject. Maybe that's why it's always on my mind. The woman I mentioned in my Dear God letter is the one who I feel suffered the most from my restlessness. I feel like I'll probably apologize to her forever. I think maybe it's the least that I can do.
If my soul simply longs to roam, I hope there is something or someone out there, able to make it cease. And if this is merely a tool designed for my destruction, I pray that somewhere within this constant dissection of it, there is a wake-up call waiting to happen.
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
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