Consultation 17.
Consultation 17.
“Hello God, I have a problem.”
“Oh? Another lost lamb? Whatever could the problem be now?”
“It’s a bit long, do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
“I was once a person who was defined in my early childhood as "the smart girl." I invested huge swathes of my self worth as a human being in presenting an innate intelligence and skill for things. As I aged out of that grappled with my own mediocrity within a larger community, combined with pre-existing mental health issues related to other aspects of my life, I was riddled with poor self-esteem, deep self-doubt, and chronic imposter syndrome.” The girl across from me sat there with empty soulless eyes as she recounted her past life.
“Then what exactly is it that has you bothered?” I asked her.
“You see, I struggled a lot with confidence in my stories which led me to remove them from the platform I published them on... I'm wondering how other people, especially people with self-confidence issues outside of just doubt about their writing abilities maintain confidence in their stories.”
“It's fine when I'm receiving external feedback like comments or readership numbers, but when I'm ‘alone’ with my story, like staring at my draft document or just during the writing process, I find it really really hard to believe in my story.”
“In the past, I’ve rationalized this lack of confidence as, ‘well if I'm doubting myself, it means I don't believe in this story so there's no value in struggling to tell it.’ I know this is only deceiving myself into feeling my anxiety and doom spirals are totally justified and normal, and I was correct to eviscerate them from the public eye, but it's just ended up enabling my problems rather than appropriately dealing with them.”
“So, what do you do when you just can't believe in your story? Besides giving up on them, that is. After all, I've already done that, so I don't need any bullshit over it.” She finished her bit without much hope in her voice.
Heavy, freaking heavy. I kept my mouth shut the entire time because she just went off, but damn. Wait! Wait just a damn minute! This is fine, isn’t it? Isn’t this perfect? Isn’t this the perfect sort of question a shitty life counselor like me was born to answer with absolutely shit-tier garbage advice? Not those crazy ridiculous questions I get from psychos all the time, but this instead?
Could this chick be the reason I was born?
If I answer her question, will my life be complete?
Psh. Nah. Who am I kidding? After this, I’m just going to get another bat shit crazy bitch. Well, whatever. Let’s get this crap over with.
“Why did you start writing to begin with?”
“Why? Why did I? I don’t really know anymore.”
“You’ve lost sight of why you started to write which is why you’ve become so self-conscious and dependent on others for validation of your existence. Did you start writing because you wanted to make it big?”
“Probably to a degree.”
“No, it may have developed into that at some point, but every writer that starts writing did it for one reason. Because they found some sort of enjoyment in it.”
“Perhaps you reached a point where you were no longer able to find enjoyment through other mediums. Stories told by others became boring, maybe predictable. Maybe you even got tired of reaching the end of a story wishing for more, but there was nothing left to quench your thirst. You wanted to experience your own world. A world for yourself where you could fit in. One where even if you wrote it to completion the world and denizens that inhabited it would continue to live on in your head. You dreamed of a world where you would be accepted.”
“Then what of it? Who the fuck gives a shit whether the story you wrote is deemed worthless by others or even society as a whole? Fuck society. Fuck the world that rejects you. To you, it is your own personal world. You enjoyed creating it. You were the one kind enough to allow others to peer into that world. Whether they enjoy it or not is entirely up to them. Others don’t determine what the work is worth to you, only you do. They aren’t you and you are not them.”
“ Even if you know there are imperfections in what you wrote, it is those imperfections that birth uniqueness. It is those imperfections that allow for change. A perfect world is boring and bland. A perfect world cannot change. It cannot evolve. It cannot grow any more than it has reached. Being perfect means you are at the very pinnacle. But what do you get when you reach that pinnacle? Nothing. Emptiness. You do not feel fulfilled. Why? Because there is nowhere left to go from there. A perfect entity should not exist in this world or any world at that. Why? Because I said so. Striving for perfection is fine and all, but honestly, fuck perfection. I never want to be perfect as that means I’ll be stuck in perpetual boredom for all eternity.”
The girl shrunk back in her seat after I went off into a long-winded rant.
“Ah. Sorry. I got a bit ahead of myself there. My bad. Just ignore what I said and treat it like I said nothing at all. There’s no need to get overly serious over this.”
:Uh… yeah, okay.
"Haaah. Anyway, most stories are crap. What turns out to be popular or well received oftentimes isn't writing that is that amazing or groundbreaking. I write because it's enjoyable to write. There's no such thing as the perfect story. Every story has a flaw, there's no point in caring about every little thing. Flaws are what make something worthwhile and enjoyable. Perfection is the most boring thing in the world. The only thing you should care about is whether you got a laugh out of what you did. At least, that is what someone I know who goes by the name Author probably thinks."
“I see. Thank you. I’ll be taking my leave.”
She ran away like I was some sort of freakish plague. I could tell she would probably never be back.
“Hahaha…” I let out an awkward dry laugh to myself, all alone in the room.
Sorry, I guess.