This is a very tricky topic for me, only because it opens up a can of worms; worms that question and squirm till they have left me feeling quite empty and no better afterwards.
As a creative person, the question of ‘worth’ and ‘accomplishment’ kind of go hand in hand with how successful we are at doing what we do and yet sustain some semblance of a lifestyle, however small or simple that may be. Until such moment, this notion of self worth and accomplishment are undeniably tied in a tight knot around our level of success.
You know how this makes me feel? And many others I assume. It make me feel worthless. That’s right, I said it. I finally said it. None of this writing post after post, nor poetry after poetry, nor insightful article one after the other, and not even novels matter at the end of the day. Why? Because these things aren’t tangible, we cannot hold them, we cannot prune them and make a garden, nor can they earn me a living. Not until some one out there thinks I have talent enough to make a life out of it.
You’re probably thinking what has brought this on today? What has caused my usual happy veneer to come crashing down and reveal the truth that lies tormenting me and other struggling artist? This is what’s bothering me. Ready.
The fact that we have to prove ourselves time and time again. More so than any other profession out there. It’s not about how well we perform in an exam, or how well we do a presentation, nor how hard we study. These don’t seem to matter. Not really. We can’t, like others, apply for a ‘writer’ position, nor are we given the same chance as an apprentice or intern, or even work experience. It’s a torturous loop, and we have no idea on how to navigate it so that we can put our foot in the doorway. I’m very frustrated with this whole thing I guess. Because, although I have two novels and scriptwriting experience under my belt amongst some other handy talents, none of it matters. I’m waiting for someone to even give me an opportunity to show what I can do, what I can learn, the effort I can put.
What’s my self worth you say? At the moment nothing really. I’m still that girl with the dream of seeing a book with my name on a shelf, but the more I look at it, the sillier I feel, this dreaming.
I am no one but a girl who is still trying to prove her worth. Still waiting for an opportunity – still waiting for the cloak of invisibility fall off.
But will I give up my writing? Perhaps not. Can’t imagine life without it. It’s a part of me, and let’s face it, turning a part of you off is one of the hardest things a person can do. All I can leave you with for the moment is, we are all fighting for something, it may not necessarily be writing for you, but we are all fighting. And some times we tire in between the quite period, questioning ourselves till the ceasefire. Some good days, some bad in the no-mans-land.