I've got no reason for the things I say. She turned towards me, then she turned away.
I think, ladies and gentlemen, it's time to write.
I started using twitter the other day, and I must say... I enjoy it. Too often throughout the day I have little thoughts that cry out to be written down, and I say unto them, "I will do so! Just wait until I sit down and pull a giant entry out of my arse." Five minutes later I've forgotten them entirely. So we'll see how this goes. Funny enough, writing all these little one-at-a-time thoughts has finally inspired me to make my first entry in months. I guess you could say it got my brain going. Which is exactly what I want to talk about in this entry.
For as long as I can remember, I've always considered myself a pseudo-intellectual. I've never really believed I was really as intelligent as I would like to be. I've had plenty of people argue to the contrary, which I suppose is why instead of thinking I was just dull I was a "pseudo-intellectual." The thought pattern goes something like, "Well, I don't think I'm all that smart. But if these people say I'm smart, maybe, if nothing else, I'm just smart enough to fool people." Maybe that's born of egotism, thinking someone else's opinion of me could never be as accurate as my own.
There's this feeling I get whenever I try to impress my thoughts and feelings into some worldly medium, this feeling that I'm taking myself far too seriously. That there must be people reading this and thinking, "Oh, there he goes again, trying to sound intelligent." As if it's really just impossible to take someone like me seriously. As long as I keep joking maybe people with think I have more important things to say that I never get around to. I read these articles, books, blogs, and all sorts of media and I think they must have something I don't. This ability to convey meaningful thoughts. After all, if I'm just a pseudo-intellectual, I'm probably best off saying as little as possible. Every word brings me closer to being discovered as the pretender that I am.
Something has started to change, though. My fake, ethereal confidence has started to solidify Suddenly I start wondering if maybe I'm not the pretender I've always thought of myself as. Maybe I haven't given myself enough of a chance. I enjoy the idea that maybe when I write, there are people out there who could find it enjoyable. Maybe I could even inspire someone! Even as I write that, there's a part of my brain that chides, "You're not really going to tell the world that, are you? You don't really think you could inspire people? You're just going to embarrass yourself by suggesting this." Maybe I've listened to that part of my brain far too much.
So what's the catalyst here? Why have I suddenly, for lack of a better term, started developing a sense of worth? I had a wonderful semester in college, as far as writing papers go. I made perfect grades on several papers, which was a confidence-boosting experience. Even still, though, the self-deprecating part of me insists that I simply had teachers with low expectations. I can't entirely deny that concept, this is just a community college, after all. I was still proud, though, and didn't mind going around doing a little bragging. Then I did something I haven't done in years: I shared my writing with my mother.
After getting off the phone with her I was amazed at how good I felt. I've never been the sort to seek out parental praise, I don't think. So why did it matter to me that my mother couldn't stop gushing about what a fantastic writer I am? After all, parents are supposed to encourage their children. There was this sense of realness, though, in how she reacted. To tell someone, "You wrote a nice paper," is a nice compliment. What my mother said to me, though, was, "You are an amazing writer, and you should get a degree in journalism." This is my mother, I am her son. It's fair to say she cares a great deal about where I invest my educational pursuits. She spent the rest of the conversation trying to convince me it wouldn't be that much harder to do a dual major. To have someone absolutely convinced that writing was my calling... it really did feel nice.
I'm not saying all of my confidence is springing forth from this singular event, mind you, but it played a large part. I've had all sorts of things on my mind lately, and all sorts of things have happened. Another even that got me thinking was Lauren telling me she thinks I'm egotistical. My feelings weren't hurt, exactly, that she said this. But I really wondered how anyone who knows me very well could think I was truly egotistical. It put me down the path of self-examination, trying to understand just how fragile my confidence is versus how bullet-proof I let the rest of the world believe it is.
So, there you have it. I'm getting too ADD to write anymore right now. The end product is: I'm going to start trying to believe in myself as a writer more.
I started using twitter the other day, and I must say... I enjoy it. Too often throughout the day I have little thoughts that cry out to be written down, and I say unto them, "I will do so! Just wait until I sit down and pull a giant entry out of my arse." Five minutes later I've forgotten them entirely. So we'll see how this goes. Funny enough, writing all these little one-at-a-time thoughts has finally inspired me to make my first entry in months. I guess you could say it got my brain going. Which is exactly what I want to talk about in this entry.
For as long as I can remember, I've always considered myself a pseudo-intellectual. I've never really believed I was really as intelligent as I would like to be. I've had plenty of people argue to the contrary, which I suppose is why instead of thinking I was just dull I was a "pseudo-intellectual." The thought pattern goes something like, "Well, I don't think I'm all that smart. But if these people say I'm smart, maybe, if nothing else, I'm just smart enough to fool people." Maybe that's born of egotism, thinking someone else's opinion of me could never be as accurate as my own.
There's this feeling I get whenever I try to impress my thoughts and feelings into some worldly medium, this feeling that I'm taking myself far too seriously. That there must be people reading this and thinking, "Oh, there he goes again, trying to sound intelligent." As if it's really just impossible to take someone like me seriously. As long as I keep joking maybe people with think I have more important things to say that I never get around to. I read these articles, books, blogs, and all sorts of media and I think they must have something I don't. This ability to convey meaningful thoughts. After all, if I'm just a pseudo-intellectual, I'm probably best off saying as little as possible. Every word brings me closer to being discovered as the pretender that I am.
Something has started to change, though. My fake, ethereal confidence has started to solidify Suddenly I start wondering if maybe I'm not the pretender I've always thought of myself as. Maybe I haven't given myself enough of a chance. I enjoy the idea that maybe when I write, there are people out there who could find it enjoyable. Maybe I could even inspire someone! Even as I write that, there's a part of my brain that chides, "You're not really going to tell the world that, are you? You don't really think you could inspire people? You're just going to embarrass yourself by suggesting this." Maybe I've listened to that part of my brain far too much.
So what's the catalyst here? Why have I suddenly, for lack of a better term, started developing a sense of worth? I had a wonderful semester in college, as far as writing papers go. I made perfect grades on several papers, which was a confidence-boosting experience. Even still, though, the self-deprecating part of me insists that I simply had teachers with low expectations. I can't entirely deny that concept, this is just a community college, after all. I was still proud, though, and didn't mind going around doing a little bragging. Then I did something I haven't done in years: I shared my writing with my mother.
After getting off the phone with her I was amazed at how good I felt. I've never been the sort to seek out parental praise, I don't think. So why did it matter to me that my mother couldn't stop gushing about what a fantastic writer I am? After all, parents are supposed to encourage their children. There was this sense of realness, though, in how she reacted. To tell someone, "You wrote a nice paper," is a nice compliment. What my mother said to me, though, was, "You are an amazing writer, and you should get a degree in journalism." This is my mother, I am her son. It's fair to say she cares a great deal about where I invest my educational pursuits. She spent the rest of the conversation trying to convince me it wouldn't be that much harder to do a dual major. To have someone absolutely convinced that writing was my calling... it really did feel nice.
I'm not saying all of my confidence is springing forth from this singular event, mind you, but it played a large part. I've had all sorts of things on my mind lately, and all sorts of things have happened. Another even that got me thinking was Lauren telling me she thinks I'm egotistical. My feelings weren't hurt, exactly, that she said this. But I really wondered how anyone who knows me very well could think I was truly egotistical. It put me down the path of self-examination, trying to understand just how fragile my confidence is versus how bullet-proof I let the rest of the world believe it is.
So, there you have it. I'm getting too ADD to write anymore right now. The end product is: I'm going to start trying to believe in myself as a writer more.