That was me making art when I was in 1st or 2nd grade. Look at the determination on my face!

I wish I could always move forward with the confidence I had as a kid. Before all the self doubt and criticism began to accumulate and sink its nasty claws in good and deep.

I was surprised the other day to hear my favorite musical artist talking about how he lacked confidence for so long. How he still had such a long way to go and had better get his shit together and start learning these things. I was stunned. He was giving an interview while being inducted into the Rock and Roll hall of fame.

My rock GOD. My beloved Trent, who I have told my husband I would leave him for if Mr Reznor were to propose. LMAO…

He doesn’t think of himself as I do. Or as millions of other fans do. So in light of all that, perhaps there is hope for me. I wonder if any artist ever truly believes they are “enough.” Or if we all spend tortured hours wondering if our art is original enough or as good as our peers, etc etc.

They say, “Comparison is the thief if joy,” but it’s hard to be objective when you’re working solely with subjective things. One person may look at my stuff and see something special, while another may laugh at my amateurish attempts and suggest I’d be of better use teaching finger painting to toddlers.

Confidence or no, for now I just keep making stuff and putting it out there. Bad, good or other, at least the one thing I don’t have to second guess myself on is whether I pushed past my comfort zone and tried.

-B

I had a serious case of insomnia the other night, coupled with hormonal dreams from what I believe is pre-menopause setting in.

This is NEVER a good situation for decision making. My sleep deprived brain determined it needed to be writing again and that it would be a brilliant idea to reboot my old autobiographical site, Dear-Me.

As I sit here at school, listening to the redneck two cars down belt out Summer of ’69 with his windows down I am reminded of very good reasons NOT TO reboot Dear-Me. I have more than one abusive narcissist in my past.

Do I really want to break down barriers I’ve spent years erecting and drag all those painful memories back into the forefront of my every day thoughts?

Simply put: Nope.

I’ve worked too hard for my peace to destroy it for the sake of telling a story I’ve told once already. Let it die. Let it gather dust, sitting on a shelf somewhere in the ethos, mouldering away, moth eaten and forgotten.

Those people are “past” for very good reason. I won’t give them my energy or pain again. They aren’t worth it.

So if I do any real writing, it will likely be fiction and any non- fiction will be about gardening. My plants are always lovely.

-B