| この 闇 の 辺り ( @ 2007-09-04 17:38:00 |
| Current mood: |
A Wistful Whangdepootenawah of Woebegone.
OK, I've really got to start putting more effort into this novel I'm working on.
Damn, I sit here listening to my older brothers jamming on YouTube, and I think, "God, look at all they've accomplished. What the fuck have I done again?" Yeah, so they got all of the instrumental talent, and I got the vocal. Outside of singing in school and winning awards, what else have I done with it?
I'm sick of being told I'm talented at something. I'm sick of looking good enough to be a professional, but I lack the self-esteem to go and become one. Why?
I'm afraid of rejection and failure. Pure and simple.
Success has always come with a price. It's like I'm waiting for the "...but" to come, constantly. I'm expecting it to happen. Being in PACE: "You're a smart kid, but you don't attend church, so I'm afraid you'll have to leave the group." Honor Society: "We'd love to let you join, but you have to participate in community activities like church." Senior Art Award: "You're a great artist, really, but your work is too weird and adult to win scholarships from the local groups, so you'll have to settle for this award." National Choral Award: "You're the best singer I've conducted, outside of your older brother, but if you don't pick it up these last few days in time for graduation, you're going to make me regret giving you that award." Holy fuck, I had a sore throat, and I was beyond depressed because I was graduating and moving away at the same time. What the hell did he want me to do? One hoarse soprano can't make up for 7 other dumb cunts who either lip sync or sing so softly you could hear a fucking pin drop!
Writing is what I've always had to keep me going. It's the only thing I have that sets me apart from my brothers, where I can actually feel sort of special when people say, "Wow, you're so good! How do you do that?"
It's the only thing I've ever done where I can remember receiving some praise from my dad.
I was 11, and my parents were newly divorced. It's not as if I'd never written anything before, but it was after that when I started to really pick up the tempo -- working on more than just fanciful romantic poetry crap, more than just wannabe rock song lyrics. I'd been reading through my dad's Stephen King collection (something verboten with my mom around), and I'd started writing my first horror story. One day, my dad picked it up while I was in the bathroom, read through some of it, and when I returned, he asked me about it. I can still hear his voice in my head: "This is really good."
Ever since that moment, I knew what my main passion had to be. If my writing was enough to get his attention, then I was talented. I could find my place in life, my calling. I could be someone special. I could finally have a chance to shine on my own and not be compared to my older brothers.
If I had a band, our name would be Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness. Yeah, yeah...Billy Corgan beat me to it with an album, but still. Misery is like a loyal mistress to me, and she must be obeyed.
So many thoughts racing through my head, but they all pulsate to the same rhythm...a never-ending chorus together singing an aria of "If you make it, everyone will love you."
It cannot be denied.