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revel in my trove

October 31, 2014

I stayed up all night, last night, working on WritingThing. I slept on it for 3.5 hours, looked at the time, made myself go back to bed. Woke up again, 3.5 more hours later, still a little bleary-minded, but ready to revisit. Donned a pretty outfit [for luck, for joy], felt my spirits soar, then began revising and polishing.

I think the bio is the best love letter to myself I’ve ever written. (I should really write more love letters to myself.)

I was pretty happy with the strength of my writing sample, after I removed 1 poem. But since that left 8, which isn’t a good number for me, decided to find a #9. I debated writing something on the spot to use. Ultimately I decided to use a recent poem that is . . . (now that I think about it) a love letter to myself! Including it, though, stretched my comfort zone, but felt satisfying too, so it was probably the right course of action.

+++

Truthfully, I could’ve revised-polished-revised for another week, another month. But recognized today as a day I could ‘just leap’ into the void. It’s Samhain. I’m emotionally as ready as I’ll ever be. What I wrote brilliantly captured me, my writing. Why wait?

I took a deep breath, paused to feel this-moment-before, then hit ‘Submit’.

With excitement, with nerves, with concentration, I’d sweated through my pretty outfit. So I showered, changed into more practical clothes.

Danced around the apartment for the rest of the day, giddy with delight at what I’d wrought. It doesn’t hardly matter if anyone else likes it — I think it’s some of my best work to date! I couldn’t stop grinning for the rest of the day.

When he returned from work, Spouse was bemused by my high energy, my corny jokes, and how cheerful and silly I was all evening. I . . . didn’t tell him why. He wouldn’t be delighted for me — ‘delight’ doesn’t seem to be a flavor note in his emotional palette — and I wanted either someone to +/- match my mood, or just hug it to myself.

+++

This afternoon, on Twitter, responding to someone embarrassed about being excited about their own work, I said people should like their own work. They know it better than anyone else; they spend the most time with it. They may be their work’s biggest fans for years and years (possibly forever).

As I typed that out that those tweets, I realized . . . I’m my own work’s Biggest Fan.

I’ve been feeling angry and resentful for months, maybe years, that I am a Big Fan of other people’s work, but hardly anyone likes mine. I characterize myself as The Biggest Fan of Spouse’s work, but he is very definitely not reciprocating. People are different; no one is obligated to like anyone else’s stuff, blah blah blah, but still, it’s been frustrating, and depressing.

But today, I saw for the first time that I like my stuff first. (My liking is not a consolation prize because no one else likes it.) I am my own Biggest Fan. I have always been my own Biggest Fan.

When I read old blog posts I wrote, or old journal entries, I always wish . . . I’d written a lot more! I really love my own sensibility, my own way of characterizing things, my own sense of humor. I never get bored with revisiting previous versions of my inner life. On the contrary, I wish I’d started writing earlier in my life!

I love pieces of art I’ve created in other media as well, and there are a lot. Photographs, drawings, paintings, ceramic objects, ceramic ‘tiles’, tapestries, woven yardage, garments of fabric and/or paper, a quilt-thing, dyed and/or painted fabric. Maps and information design visualizations.

I want me to write more, because I want to read what me will say. What can I learn from me? What journeys can we take together? What can we explore?

I think I am terrific!

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