Here’s a question for you: Would you rather have the work of living your dream or the glory of living it? Of course this is a trick question. I know for a fact that you’ve chosen secret option c) to not do the work and to yammer about having no glory.
Twenty. One. Years. That’s how long you’ll suffer over not writing a book. This means that you’ll spend at least two-thirds–and-I’m-not-able-to-do-the-maths of your life complaining about how hard it is to write a book while writing absolutely no books. It’s not all bad though. In the forty-six days since turning 33, I’ve googled how to elevate my sleep routine with an anti-wrinkle beauty pillow. Twice. The one that comes with a satin sleeve feels kind of exciting?! You know, just to add that luxurious touch of je ne sais quoi to the terrors of living a pointless life. What’s more, there’s no need to worry about decaying body grime building up all over what Farrow & Ball would call a “Dead Salmon No. 28 in Estate Emulsion” sheen: I checked, and the cover is washable.
I’m kiddiiiiing. Of course I didn’t check if it’s washable. I’m a 33-year-old with the wild washing machine ways of a teenager. I hope you’re as pleased about this as I am. It means that I haven’t developed any significant late stage symptoms of serious adulthood yet. Except, and I’m embarrassed to admit this, I did catch that widespread ailment of matureness that, if you don’t treat it in time, is known to suck out all the nutrients and squeeze the life out of you like a strangler fig. You know what I’m talking about: giving up on what matters most to you.
Remember how you used to come home from school, throw your bag in a corner, press play on the mixed tape you made with Alice Cooper’s “Poison” and Lou Bega’s “Mambo Nr. 5” on it, and just write, write, write, because nothing else felt that good? I think you had over 600 pages saved on floppy discs by the time you were fourteen. Out of curiosity, you started reading books on “how to write” and the more you read, the less you wrote. And then, I’m sorry to tell you, things take a bit of a nasty turn in the ‘follow your joy’ department. You don’t make it into art school (something about your subject matter being too vulgar?), and a posterior opening of the digestive tract named Günther (see, I’m not vulgar) is going to tell you that you can’t sing as you take the exam for your music major. By the time you’re eighteen, the joy has been sucked right out of you and not a lot of what you love to do is left.
Some people are raised to believe nothing will ever become of them. Others, like you, are raised to believe that you can never fail. Which means you’re not prepared when your innocence hits the “no” of gatekeepers and the ship of your reality is torn open along the starboard hull. Without the ability to process your failures, you go belly up and break in two over your grief and humiliation.
It’s why you never realise that all they took from you was the glory, while you’re the one who keeps denying yourself the work that is chicken noodle soup for your soul.
© Shauna Bennis 2023-08-31