The Tortured Artist
I've always felt that artists are at their most-creative when they're in angst. There's something about that need to express the pain within that causes singers and poets and painters to produce prolifically.
When I was in high school I wrote a lot. Of course I did: I was a stranger in a strange land, with bars across my teeth and such low self-esteem that I couldn't allow anyone to be my friend. When I moved out on my own after college, I journaled a lot. It's no surprise: I was supposed to be an adult, but I still felt like a child, and my self-worth was still in question.
Those particular feelings evaporated, but then I got married. Suddenly I was supposed to be a strong wife and step-mom, and I worried that I wasn't particularly good at either. Some of my most introspective essays were written during those honeymoon years.
Then Mr. C was born, and I was too overwhelmed to do anything creative.
But, slowly, all those negative feelings have gone. I became more certain of myself as an adult, completely confident in my role as a mother, and thoroughly happy as a wife. And so I have little about which to despair.
You can tell I'm content because I'm no longer blogging. Why would I be? Mr. C has grown out of the worst of his precociousness: his antics -- while still amusing -- are hardly worth bothering the blogosphere with. My travesties in home improvement are now few and far between (perhaps because I've already messed up anything there was to mess). And the idea of writing a snitty-rant against my husband just doesn't hold the appeal it once did: by the time I've organized my thoughts enough to get them on paper, Bee's done something to remind me that I truly have no reason to complain.
Sometimes people forget how good they have it. I rarely do.
I'll just have to find something else to blog about.
When I was in high school I wrote a lot. Of course I did: I was a stranger in a strange land, with bars across my teeth and such low self-esteem that I couldn't allow anyone to be my friend. When I moved out on my own after college, I journaled a lot. It's no surprise: I was supposed to be an adult, but I still felt like a child, and my self-worth was still in question.
Those particular feelings evaporated, but then I got married. Suddenly I was supposed to be a strong wife and step-mom, and I worried that I wasn't particularly good at either. Some of my most introspective essays were written during those honeymoon years.
Then Mr. C was born, and I was too overwhelmed to do anything creative.
But, slowly, all those negative feelings have gone. I became more certain of myself as an adult, completely confident in my role as a mother, and thoroughly happy as a wife. And so I have little about which to despair.
You can tell I'm content because I'm no longer blogging. Why would I be? Mr. C has grown out of the worst of his precociousness: his antics -- while still amusing -- are hardly worth bothering the blogosphere with. My travesties in home improvement are now few and far between (perhaps because I've already messed up anything there was to mess). And the idea of writing a snitty-rant against my husband just doesn't hold the appeal it once did: by the time I've organized my thoughts enough to get them on paper, Bee's done something to remind me that I truly have no reason to complain.
Sometimes people forget how good they have it. I rarely do.
I'll just have to find something else to blog about.
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