The Isolation Journals - Day 42

Holy shit it's only Tuesday

Prompt:  Close your eyes and imagine the last time you tried to create. Who appeared? What did you hear? Maybe it was a critical parent, a competitive classmate, a teacher’s thoughtless remark, or a line from a rejection letter. Maybe it was a voice of unknown origin that you hear on loop: it’s too late, you’re not good enough, you’ll never get there. Write an eviction notice to whomever or whatever hinders your creative joy. Name them. Call them on their bull. Firmly usher them out the door. Once they’re gone, if you notice a difference in the space, write about the change.

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To Whom It May Not Concern:

I see you over there, not seeing me.  I know your rejection wasn't personal.  It never is.  You have a lot of crap to sift through, panning for comedic and/or literary gold in the shit stream that is the internet.  

It's fine, it's totally fine.  It only ruins like, a third of my day every time I see your gently worded "thanks but no thanks" in my inbox.  It feels, in that moment, like you possess a burning hatred for me and everything I've ever created, and want to hunt me to the ends of the earth, Liam Neeson style, to ensure I never write in this town again.  But after a few deep breaths, I always return to my senses (relatively speaking).

And I get it.  I totally get it.  I'm not for everyone.  I'm not everyone's cup of cilantro and hot sauce tea.  To tell you the truth, I'm not even my own cup of tea most of the time.  That's largely because I can't even make an actual cup of tea with a straight face, without a Beavis and Butt-head voice in the back of my mind going "heh, teabag, heh."  Do you have any idea what it's like to be a 34-year-old woman with the arrested sensibilities of a 14-year-old boy?  It's excruciating!  I understand why you would not be into that.

Which is why I have you beat at your own game, you critics, you cultural gate-keepers!  Nobody, and I mean nobody, thinks less of me and my creative output than I do.  This is an attention check - blink if you are still reading this and you secretly like the smell of your own farts.  Hah, you blinked!  I knew it.  You're gross.

Forgettably yours,

Katie