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This is a poem inspired by an excerpt from Glennon Doyle's Untamed. If you don't know Glennon, you should follow her on Instagram. As a fellow Enneagram four, I HIGHLY endorse her work. This is in image format because it will be part of the poetry book I am self-publishing this year.
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![]() By Heather Jacobs hjscribes.com January 17, 2021 NOTE: This post contains Amazon Associate product links from which the author receives commission on each product purchased. The Many Uses of Mummies Paper is the lifeblood of literacy, and literacy the cornerstone of an empowered society. While a European account of papermaking would place its invention somewhere in the 15th century, the Chinese had Western civilization beat with their discovery of the process, using fibers and hemp, around 100 A.D., and the Ancient Egyptians, using papyrus, as far back as 2700 B.C. Mummy paper is a paper product made from the linen wrappings of Ancient Egyptian mummies. Aside from sounding like something used in an occult ritual, there is debate as to whether this practice occurred in the mid-nineteenth century. While it may sound strange, mummies were once so abundant that they had been used for a variety of purposes, including as medicine. Mummy powder was as readily available and widely used as Aspirin is today. The reasoning, while flawed, was not as sinister as eating-a-dead-body-to-cure-headaches may seem. It was once, erroneously, believed that the Ancient Egyptians had used Bitumen to embalm their dead. Thus, powdered mummy was believed to be a great source of the stuff. But where is the benefit in making paper out of the wrappings of mummified corpses? It is important to understand a little bit about the history of paper to see where this idea may have come from. Got Paper? If not for paper, the movable type printing press may not have been the revolutionary accomplishment it was. With Johannes Gutenberg’s invention in the 15th century, literacy was no longer limited to the elite and Westerners were no longer dependent on the handwritten and oral communication of ideas. Years following its creation, the speed and efficiency the printing press offered brought a period of open public discourse and exchange of ideas. This freedom of thought and speech loosened the church’s grip on society and allowed citizens to openly criticize their government. In an attempt to quell any speech considered seditious (the bar was set pretty low for that standard), the British government sought to control the distribution of printed materials to the public. It was then mandated that the right to print would require licensure, and that the content expressed was to be controlled and approved by the government. With the rise of opposition newspapers, and the loss of business to nations with much friendlier printing laws, Great Britain could no longer realistically control the press. The licensing of printing expired in 1694. Thus, the pace of printing the written word continued at breakneck speeds. But with the ability to mass produce publications came a shortage of the raw materials necessary to manufacture paper; linen and cotton. Newspapers consistently posted ads on their back pages asking citizens to save used linen rags and exchange them for payment. The situation was much more desperate in colonial America where the British government had forbidden the importation of paper products from other nations. Laws preventing the colonists from manufacturing for themselves meant that all materials were to come from the motherland. Scarcity of raw materials combined with the cost of importing goods would make the price of paper untenable for those wishing to print in the colonies. This would become a focal point of the colonists’ demand for independence. The matter of a paper shortage persisted well after the American revolution and by the 1850’s, there was a dire need for a new papermaking process. The London Times had publicly offered a reward to anyone who could invent a new way to create the good stuff. This is where the idea of mummy paper is said to have come into being. Before the discovery of the wood-pulp process of making paper, Geologist, Archeologist, and Explorer, Isaiah Deck, while visiting Egypt, had discovered mummy pits. Mummy pits are exactly what they sound like. Large pits filled with mummies. Deck estimated that there were likely a half-billion mummies throughout Egypt, all of which were wrapped in the precious linen needed to create paper. No one knows for sure what happened next, but speculation of the use of mummy paper has been the center of lively debate. In Dard Hunter’s book, Papermaking: The History and Technique of an Ancient Craft, the topic of mummy paper is mentioned in relation to the work of I. Augustus Stanwood. According to Stanwood’s son, Daniel, his father had used the linens of mummies to create the wrapping paper used by butchers and grocers. In his recollection of the product, his father had discontinued this practice after an epidemic of cholera was linked back to his paper. It is unclear if the paper was the actual cause of a cholera outbreak. Fast forward to 2010, independent researcher, S.J. Wolfe had discovered a book in Brown University’s Hay library said to have been created using mummy paper. The book, Hymn: for the bi-centennial anniversary of the settlement of Norwich, Conn., is the first and only known publication that definitively used mummy linen for its paper. Wolfe believes that this is evidence that mummy paper could have in fact been used to print newspaper during the paper shortage of the newspaper boom. Wolfe is the director of EMINA (Egyptian Mummies in North America), a database dedicated to the cataloging of mummies that made their way to North America. While it is unclear as to whether mummy linen was, at any point in history, used for paper on more than a few odd occasions, I’d like to believe that it was. There is something delightfully wonderful about weird and creative solutions to problems. If you’d like to read more about this subject, check out these links below:
Well, it's been a few weeks, but I finally came back to this journal writing thing.
Tracy is moved in with her hoard of demon spawn cats. I wanted to like the furry little shits, I really did. But so far, Chompers has scratched the shit out of my couch, Dublin has pissed all over every surface that has ever existed, Frisky will not let me piss or shit by myself, lest I want to hear constant yeowling outside the bathroom door, and Jack has decided that 2am is the best time to start climbing on everything and knocking stuff to the floor. I want sleep, privacy, and I miss my home not smelling like an ammonia-laced hellscape. Tracy has been agreeable for the most part. She just sits at home and watches TV. Admittedly, it's been nice to have someone here to accept deliveries for me. Then I know my packages won't be stolen from my doorstep. Her and I don't really talk much. She knows that her cats are driving me insane, and that I would kill for a good night's sleep. We avoid talking to one another because I suspect she hates staying with me as much as I hate having her here. I can't wait for her apartment to be ready. In other news, an interesting thing happened the other day. I decided to go for a walk. Which felt weird for me, since I don't generally prefer to do any sort of physical activity, much less take in the sights and smells of the neighborhood. Same urine laden air, different variety of piss. I had a bit of a time convincing myself to head out the door. I am not sure what made me decide to go today. I don't know, maybe I am premenstrual. Maybe I am getting sick. I know I have been thinking a lot lately about how satisfied, or probably more like how unsatisfied, I am. I know I have also been feeling completely unproductive. I've been feeling angry at myself and disappointed in the current state of things. Feeling deceived by my own ambitions. In either case, no matter how shitty my mood, I guess I had intended on being productive in some minuscule way. Even if it was doing an activity that I knew I would later dismiss as not being enough to count toward anything remotely productive or consequential. As I was doing so, my neighbor, who my mother and I have nicknamed "DVD" walked out of his apartment. DVD stands for "Domestic Violence Dickhead". While it may seem a bit insensitive to give such a dismissive nickname to his atrocious character, it developed out of necessity for code names and a severe lack of consequences for his actions. As far as I know, he is on the verge of being evicted for repeatedly sucking at life. I share an alcove with him. I have no windows, neither does he, and we keep our front doors open. When violence erupts over there, it's like it is happening in the same room. As he walked past me, he begrudgingly let out a "Hello." I don't know if he knows I am the one calling the police on him when he throws his "manly" temper tantrums. I don't particularly care what he thinks. If he wanted to get away with being a repulsive dickhead, he should learn to close his front door. I hate bullies. And I don't tolerate bully behavior. I nodded to him and looked back down at my phone. As he passed me, I couldn't help but notice how good I thought he smelled. The smell was pleasant and comforting. Which I found amusing when contrasted with the cigarette butts and trash that litters our porch area and his parking spot, and the extreme violence I am forced to listen to. I tend to think too much. I notice stupid things like that. I put in my earbuds and began listening to Tori Amos' album Little Earthquakes. I had made the decision to hit the coffee shack that is the opposite direction of the route I was going to take. It is a literal shack that is right down the street from my home. I was feeling tired and needed a little pick me up. Everything about my choices this afternoon felt weird. Like I said, maybe I'm getting sick. And so I started to move. “Every finger in the room is pointing at me…” As I began my trip, I couldn’t help but think more about idiot boy’s cologne. It got me wondering what it was about the fragrance I found so appealing. I suppose it seemed familiar. Was it a scent I recognized? I was already on the street and almost at the crosswalk. Walking toward me were two men who, while talking to each other, were looking at me inquisitively. They were both very dark skinned, and dressed in business casual attire. They had lanyards hanging around their necks and looked as though they might have been on their lunch break. One of them was taller than the other and thin. The shorter one was still taller than me, and much rounder than his friend. He wore glasses and his head was shaved. He was holding a sheet of paper and he stopped in front of me and pointed to some writing on it. I couldn't hear him over Tori wondering why we martyr ourselves over the expectations of others. I paused my music and removed my earbuds. He asked me," Do you know where we can find this address?" he pointed to some handwriting at the bottom of some directions printed from a maps website. I didn’t feel much like being friendly, but what the fuck was I going to do? Tell him to fuck off? I guess I could have. I look at the address on the paper. I recognized the street address and the cross-sections. I let him know that if he continued walking straight down the street we were on, he would hit the cross street he was looking for and that his destination would be in that area. I asked him if he knew where the main road it was connected to was located. It’s seriously a big ass street. Can’t freaking miss it. He looked back up at me from the paper and said," No, we are from Nigeria, we do not know this city. We are trying to find the Islamic Center." By looking at the address on his paper, I had no idea that was where they were headed, but I knew the place. I pass the Islamic Center every day. I told him," Oh! If you follow this street all the way down, the Islamic Center will be on your right. It's a bit of a walk from here, but you are on the correct street. Just keep walking that way." I pointed toward the direction I had been walking from. The direction they had been walking to. They thanked me, and began their journey. I continued to the cross walk so I could obtain something with some caffeine. I didn't bother putting my earbuds back in. I was about to have another human interaction anyway. After purchasing my beverage, I made my way back to the crosswalk and to the lady eagerly waiting to ask a rhetorical question. “Why do we crucify ourselves? Every day…” I hate to admit it, but it felt good to be outside. I realized that I spend a little too much time indoors. I actively leave my home and am a fairly busy person, but I tend to wait until the late afternoon to begin my activities. This was sunlight of a different caliber. It was slightly overcast, but it was still warm and bright. I started to realize that I love the way the neighborhood looks during the day. I love the houses. The well-maintained upkeep that translates to "pride of ownership" in some homes, and the contrast of deterioration in others, and how the term "pride of ownership" implies control over poverty or worthiness to the privilege of owning a home. The juxtaposition of stable middle income families and those living in poverty is a sick sight, but I guess I kind of like the toxicity. Of course I got back on DVD’s scent. The more I think about it, I guess I am not surprised that he would be wearing something so appealing. He is a predator, and pleasant smells are invitations into a predator's trap. As I considered this, I recalled that my instinct toward feeling familiarity with his cologne was correct. An ex-boyfriend of my mother’s, who was not unlike DVD himself, used to wear the same cologne. I believe it is something of the Stetson variety. This amused me. I had walked a couple of short blocks and soon, I saw my Nigerian pals. The taller one had crossed the street. The shorter one who had engaged me was still on my side of the street, but had made a small detour down a cross street. He was walking back to where he had started. I involuntarily smiled at him, and he noticed me approaching and smiled back. "Are you lost?" I asked him. "Yes, we are so confused. I don't understand the post code. It doesn't seem like we are going in the correct direction." His accent was thick. I find accents intimidating. I have a hard time hearing people with deep voices. Everything sounds like it's being mumbled. Add an accent I am unfamiliar with, and you get a lot of me asking you to repeat what you had just said a million times. I feel terrible about it every single time, though I don’t know what exactly is wrong with having a hard time hearing. Somehow I am programmed to believe that I should feel guilty about that sort of thing. I told him," If you stick to this street and keep walking, you will make it to the Islamic Center. It's a long walk, but it's literally on this street. I can walk with you that way." UGH! Why did I offer to keep a stranger company? "Oh, thank you! I really appreciate it!" he said to me. UGH! Why did he accept my offer? I could hear the gratitude in his voice. He introduced himself. “My name is Yakubu.” As we began walking toward the Islamic Center, he asked me a bit about myself. Whether or not I was married, had children, or had any plans for children. Each time I answered his questions, I could sense a little bit of judgement, but not as though he were trying to be disrespectful. He seemed genuinely interested in learning about me and what I had going on in my life. I couldn’t help but notice that his friend, who had crossed the street in an attempt to find his way, stayed on that side of the street. He was following along with us as we walked toward the direction of the Islamic center. And whether it was my own judgement or prejudice, I wondered to myself if it had anything to do with the fact that I was a woman. And then I immediately stopped caring about anything he was doing. After a lot of friendly banter between Yakubu and myself, we finally made it to his desired destination. He was very grateful and thanked me for all of my help in getting him unlost. I felt somewhat elated after the interaction. It was strange because I don’t generally feel anything these days. But here I was, feeling like I had just done something remarkable. I don’t mean that as though I did something worthy of praise. I mean that in the way you would experience an aurora borealis for the first time, or witness a bird land on the podium of someone who is giving a speech about fixing all of the flaws of Capitalism and a government that has forgotten the power of its people. That kind of remarkable. Anyway, so that is how my day went. It was weird and I don’t know if I will go for another walk for a while. As far as consistency goes, I guess keeping up with this regularly is a bit of a problem for me, but this is my second entry in this journal. Which is two more entries than I ever would have done had Doctor Findle not urged me to do so. She thinks she knows me well, and sometimes I think she does. Okay, well. I am going to go try and take a shower. Let’s see if I can make another entry happen in less time than it took for me to get to this one. Bye, Pollyanne Morgana Applewood Nearly 80 degrees at 10pm
And the sky begins to dance It’s beating a distant drum Not bothering to keep rhythm Its cadence not restricted by the concept of time Rolling for minutes on end I stare out my window Knowing that I should be trying to sleep Taking in flashes that blind me I blink away the remnants And I can’t help but think about... How the lightning reveals every crack in the sky And how I hope that I never get used to it And how I see the high winds bullying the trees But notice that the one closest to my apartment is strong and steady And that he must have been here a while So then I know that everything will be okay And how I refer to plants and animals with male pronouns And that I must somehow find comfort in that And how I hate the lights on the buildings Casting reflections in the glass of my windows Obstructing my view of the beauty before me And I see all of the people on the street driving And I consider that this probably isn’t special And how my coworkers or acquaintances may laugh at my sense of wonder And then I hope that I never get used to it God I hope I never get used to it
So, there was this guy, right? His name was… well, I think his name was like, Albert, or Joey. Something weird like that. The kind of name that feels like maybe it crawled out of a New York City alleyway dumpster. Sure, some might disagree. Some might say,” Hey! Joey is a fine name!” or,” My grandfather’s name was Albert and he was a great man!”, but that isn’t going to change the fact that I wholeheartedly believe that Joeys and Alberts are birthed from alley-dumpsters during the most humid months of the year. You can keep your facts. I’ve got intuition, pal.
So anyway, Joey, or Albert, his name really isn’t that important. He was just some dude. He lived on the third floor of the apartment building you see on 10th Street. It’s the big building with the green molding, all of the window screens are peeling and turning a weird sickly yellow. That one! You know the one I’m talking about. I really hate that building. I mean, it looks like it’s judging you and every choice you’ve ever made while it has the gall to stand there clashing in an outfit made of a pale green and pukey yellow. I find pretentious people upsetting, and pretentious buildings even more so. Well, one day, I think it was last week, Jobert, or Albey, kinda lost his mind. Rumor has it he was in his apartment listening to some talk radio show host prattle on about how the illuminati are running the show and that their plan is to turn everyone gay. I guess the lizard overlords believe that homosexuality is the key to bringing the birthrate to its knees. Some shit like that. Anyway, he was getting himself pretty worked up in there. I guess his neighbors heard him screaming about ‘lizard people’ and ‘reptilian homos’ and throwing things around his apartment. He went pretty berserk. Long story short, he went down to the local gas station, bought a canister and filled it up. He went home, and doused his entire apartment, lit a cigarette and waited for something to catch fire. I guess he figured the fumes would be enough to light the place up. The guy really wasn’t all there to begin with. After hours of puffing away on cigarette after cigarette and getting sick on gas fumes, he went into another rage and threw himself out of his window. He only lived on the third floor so… he didn’t die, but he is definitely in a coma now. I know, pretty twisted, yeah? Well, my mom’s friend Tracy lives in the unit next door to his. I guess the fumes got so bad, they won’t come out of the floor or the walls and she was feeling really sick. Somehow my mom convinced me to let her stay here with me. “Oh, but Pollyanne! You live so close, and I know Tracy and her four cats would make for great company. You live all alone in that studio. In such a bad neighborhood, might I add? I worry about your well-being. It will only be for a couple of weeks until the landlord can get a cleaner into their building and take care of that horrible smell. Now be a good girl and pick Tracy up at 7pm. I love you! *click*” Yeah, so, I guess Tracy… and Chompers… and Frisky… and Dublin… and Jack… are all coming to stay with me for the next couple of weeks. I really don’t know how I am going to fit everyone into my cramped little apartment. The place barely houses me. And I don’t have a working stove, so I really hope Tracy and her cohorts are keen on some bodega food, because that’s what’s for dinner. And lunch. And breakfast. Although, really only dinner, because I don’t have much time for any of the other meals of the day. Tracy has been friends with my mother since they were 12. Though, I don’t know if I would call their relationship “friendly” as much as I would call it horrible. They never agree on anything, and when they do, it’s usually as an attempt to outdo one another. I honestly don’t understand why they continue to meet up for brunch if the only purpose is to try to convince each other that the other one is leading a slightly more miserable life. If you ask me, they are both pretty fucked. Tracy lives in that shitty building on 10th street with like-minded dullards, and my mom hangs out with Tracy. Birds of a feather or something like that. If there is one thing I do take solace in, it’s that fall is right around the corner. That means that the weather will cool down, the leaves will start changing colors, and the humidity will start to ease up. That also means amazing thunderstorms. The prospect of all the gaiety that the change of the season will bring is exciting, but really, I think I’m more in this for the cooler weather. My air conditioner has been broken for weeks. I’ve considered calling the landlord to have them fix it, but that sounds like a lot of work. First you got to get up the nerve to actually make the phone call. Then you’ve got to do some dreadful small talk so that you don’t seem like a complete asshole. Then comes the fun part where you ask Sheldon to do the simplest task of maintaining the building he rents out and it’s like he is doing you the favor of accommodating you with basic amenities. Afterward, he struts around like he’s some sort of god and feels indignant if you don’t agree. I don’t know what it is about owning a penis that makes grown ass men act like ungrateful little boys. Mom’s always asking me why I don’t have a boyfriend, and the truth is, I’ve never really felt much attraction to anyone or anything, but even less do I feel attracted to the ego-baggage that comes with dick ownership. I’ve had one boyfriend throughout my entire life. He was okay. We dated from when I was 16 to 19. He didn’t have any unchecked luggage that I knew of. Though I would say we were more passively congenial than we were in love. And when he shipped out of state to go to college, it seemed practical to end our partnership. We didn’t stay in touch. Not because of any feelings of resentment or anything. It was more just a lack of convenience to do so. Personally, I don’t really care if Tracy and her brood stay with me or not. I just don’t want to feel obligated to take care of anyone. So long as they are self-sustaining and don’t ask for much, they can stay forever. That cool weather better come soon though. I don’t want to hear any bitching and I am not calling Sheldon to ask for any “favors”. It’s almost 6:30pm and I suppose I better prepare for Tracy’s arrival before I go and pick her and her fur balls up. Keeping a journal is something I’ve never considered doing before my therapist recommended it, so I can’t make any promises that I will be consistent. So, see ya next time, or goodbye forever. We’ll see how I feel tomorrow. Sincerely or some shit, Pollyanne Morgana Applewood Content Warning: Pet Death Ten. Panting, sweating, heart beating violently. I feel it in my throat. The motion is nauseating. A steady rhythm denoting the continuation of life, and forceful enough to make one sick. I pedaled frantically in pursuit of my best friend. The street a black velvety expanse of freshly paved road. This felt like the longest distance anyone could travel. The incline unrelenting as I was unable to keep up with her pace. Shadoe stops in the middle of the black sea and looks behind her. I call out her name. This was a challenge and she is excited to accept it. The thrill of the chase. She wants me to get closer before continuing to run.
Her fur was a gentle golden brown, the way light looks when it is shining through a bottle of maple syrup held up to the sun, a patch of muted black on her back. The markings were a pale facsimile of the pattern worn by her mother. From her neck and down her chest was a blanket of white that reminded me of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream. Nine. I named her Shadoe because I loved the movie Homeward Bound. I had chosen the unique spelling because her eyes reminded me of a beautiful fawn, or the calf, Norman, from City Slickers. My mom laughed and told me there was an actor named Shadoe Stevens who spelled his name the same way, but I had no idea who that was. She was my shadow though, the one who would follow me from room to room, who would crawl into bed with me at the end of every day, and cuddle against me until I woke up. I’m cursing her and demanding she come back. She stands motionless and staring at me, not noticing anything that is happening around her. I see the soft pumpkin pie neck and the black collar around it. I can’t wait to get a grip on that necklace so I can bring her home. Eight. Coming home every day was a respite from the litany of criticism I would receive from my peers. Being an emotional child, I was often called “psycho”, or, if that label was tired, I was “cross-eyed freak” because of my lazy eye. One campus aide would vent their life’s frustration out on me by telling me I was a “cry baby” and asking me if I was "going to cry today". The school administration staff was sick of seeing me in their offices to complain about how badly the other children treated me, and over time, I became their biggest problem, not the bullies. Shadoe was a little wild. A streak she got from her mother; a Rhodesian Ridgeback mix named Princess. Princess had given birth to Shadoe in our home and Shadoe’s father, a Pitbull mix, lived up the street only three houses from ours. From that litter, we decided to keep Shadoe because of the strong connection her and I had formed. Her wildness would often manifest in her desire to bolt out the front door whenever it was open long enough for her to shoot by. This always resulted in a long chase around the neighborhood. It was a dangerous game fraught with my anxiety and attempted bargaining with a creature whose understanding of the English language was limited. But it always ended with Shadoe coming home. Whenever my friend Sarah would come over, she always ended up letting the dogs out. Sarah was very tall and large for a seventh-grade girl. She had blond hair, blue eyes, and was one of the clumsiest, least self-aware people I had ever met up to that point. Today was no different. Sarah had opened the front door and Shadoe took the opportunity to run out into the street. Off to the races! I grabbed my bike and chased after her. Same dance, different day. Seven. Shadoe was the first instance of unconditional love in my life. All other forms of affection seemed to be punctuated by the condition of whether my feelings were the source of inconvenience to those who were causing me pain. I would talk to her and tell her my problems, and she would stay with me, her big brown eyes and dancing eyebrows. Never getting up to leave in the middle of a conversation or a session of crying. Unlike my friends at school, Shadoe was not prone to bouts of middle school dramatics. We never participated in the cycle of friend turned enemy back to friend. When I was much younger, a friend’s youngest sister had told me that their mother hated when I would come over. I remember their mother looking shocked and ashamed that her youngest child would betray her trust. It was the first time I had ever felt like I was in opposition of authority. That something was wrong with me. My mother would spend her evenings drinking cheap beer and smoking weed with Beverly-and-jim, who lived next door to us. Beverly-and-jim and their brother Loren. Loren smelled like sweet burning plastic and extremely paranoid. He had once been abducted by aliens and slept on a waterbed. These were the neighbors, a convenient distance of one full house, but it made mom feel a million miles away. Shadoe was a constant in my world. A loyalty so consistent, I may have taken it for granted. A black chariot in the form of a lifted truck is coming down the hill behind her. The size of the thing growing larger as it comes closer. This is how perspective works. I’ve had doctors tell me that due to my lazy eye, there is no possible way I have any depth perception, but I know what I saw. The impossible space between the ground and the bottom of the truck’s body becoming clearer as it heads toward us. Toward her. Six. I’m shouting and begging for her to get out of the middle of the street. Shadoe continues to stare at me, not noticing the approaching vehicle. I can’t get there in time. She has to move. Please move. I’m trying to get closer. I’m not fast enough. The hill is too steep. STOP! I’m screaming at the truck now. I don’t understand the lift. I don’t understand the speed. I can’t see the driver. Five. The front left tire, this would be my right. She’s lined up perfectly. Please don’t do this to me. Four. Impact. I watch as she spins clockwise, the truck continuing to pass. She falls to the ground. Three. I scream. I drop my bike and run. My heart racing, I feel no tears. Only dread. This isn’t real. This doesn’t actually happen in real life. Two. I’m standing over her, blood pooling beneath her. The ground is so black, and the fluid is so thick. Her eyes are open and a wide mischievous grin on her lips. The man in the truck pulls over. He stands by his steed, silent and gawking. Another vehicle pulls over on the wrong side of the road and the driver is suddenly by my side. He picks her up and brings her out of the street. His short sleeves on his white T-shirt are rolled up. His dark hair is coiffed and his biceps look strong. He reminds me of a greaser from the movies. I think of the S.E. Hinton books I’d recently read. He smells good, like safety. One. “Why didn’t you stop?” It’s all I can say. I don’t know if she is gone. The man who pulled over on the wrong side of the street holds me in his arms. Why does he smell so good? I don’t cry, but I want to. The man from the lifted truck blames me because Shadoe wasn’t wearing a leash. Someone calls my dad while I hold on tightly to the man, who looks like a greaser. This story is also featured on Reedsy. Am I valid?
I haven't published in weeks. Months. Am I valid? I see other artists, friends, people whom I admire, creating wonderful pieces of art with great regularity. And somehow, I can't seem to find the time or energy to produce even semi-regularly. Am I valid? Do I give myself a break because I have been in the middle of a move, and my apartment isn't a home, but a warehouse for disorganized boxes and bags, cables and trash? Is it just an excuse? Am I valid? I'm certain those of you here have heard of Impostor Syndrome, and while these feelings and fears may be related to this phenomenon, I can't help but feel this isn't exactly what's going on. See, I'm not really concerned about whether or not I am good enough. I understand my skill level and I see improvements. Sure, I see others growing at rates I feel I could never achieve, and every now and then feel insecure about it, but I get over that pretty quickly. I've long since stopped caring about whether or not someone else thinks I am good enough to have the gall to share my work with the world. No. My concern isn't about being good enough. My concern comes from worrying that my lack of time producing means that I don't actually enjoy creating work with the same fervent desire of my peers. I believe I enjoy doing these things, but can't ever seem to get into that headspace. So why do I procrastinate? Put projects I've started on the back burner and allow the tedium of my every day life be an excuse for why I just don't have time? I am a Perfectionist. I find myself frustrated when I am in a meeting with a coworker or an acquaintance and they announce that they are a self-described "perfectionist" because they do well at their job. Perfectionism is not a trait to glorify. Perfectionists such as myself go through an internal struggle where nothing is ever good enough. As a result, things don't get done. "I can't work on that oil painting right now because my workspace isn't clean. It's already 4pm, I don't have time to dedicate to that project. The dishes aren't done yet, there is no way I could focus on getting that drawing done." And so it goes... The thing is, perfectionists allow simple things to distract them. We use it as an excuse as to why we might fail if we were to start working on a project we actually care about. And this is why I don't produce with the regularity of my peers. I often have to remind myself that my problem is not that I am invalid, or that I don't enjoy the work. It's that I fear failure. I care a lot about painting, writing, and all things artistic expression. And it's because of this passion I feel for art-related endeavors that the simplest act of trying can be overwhelming. Create at Your Own Pace As a recovering perfectionist, I think it is important to remember that we are all human. We make mistakes. Would I like to be as impressive as my friends Jasmine Worth and Lauren Elizabeth? Absolutely. But I can't create at their level. At least not yet. One should definitely push themselves beyond their comfort zone. Not feeling ready? Do it anyway! And I do. Not as often as I wish I did, but I do it anyway. And that's the point. Beating myself up over not being perfect at creating every single day, or being as fast as others only makes the perfectionist problem worse. As a human being who is still figuring life out, and is not an expert in the matter, here is my advice to combating perfectionism: 1. Are you uncomfortable? Do it anyway. It doesn't matter if it comes out exactly as you imagined. The end result may surprise you. If it sucks, who cares? Keep going. 2. Couldn't Bring Yourself To Do It Because... Reasons? That's Fine, Too. Did you at least try? Good. Remember that you tried and resolve to try again next time. 3. Resolve To Do Better. Remember that you can only handle what you can handle. Beating yourself up isn't going to help you. Resolve to try again next time. Keep trying until five minutes turns into 10 minutes turns into one hour of dedicated effort. 4. You Did It! But Can You Do It Again Next Time? YES! YES! This wasn't a one-time deal. You will be able to do it again. Next time may not work out like this time did, but you can do it again. 5. Cut Yourself Some Damn Slack! Are you still procrastinating because of your fear of failure? "I shouldn't be wasting my time. I should be doing the thing. I SHOULD be able to do this!" All right, yeah, you're not exactly being productive, but don't SHOULD all over yourself! Shoulding on yourself isn't going to make you magically better at the thing. And don't allow others who don't suffer from perfectionism (or are at a different point in their perfectionist recovery) tell you what your situation should look like. Strive to do better, but remember we are all different. Does it take you 6 months to create one simple thing while everyone else around you is creating 6 new intricate things every month? It doesn't matter. Are you creating at all? Are you trying your best? That's all that matters; that you keep trying. While I don't produce nearly as frequently as I wish I did, I absolutely produce more than I did 11 years ago. My recovery is slow, but I would say I have definitely improved, and I see real growth in the work I do. The trick? I have to not care if something is good or not. Such as this thought piece. Is it garbage? Maybe. But I am writing. I am producing. I am creating content. And creating mediocre content in mid-August is better than the not-creating-any-content I did throughout the entire month of July. Doing is better than not doing. Even if you're scared, and even if it sucks. Remember that each time you do a thing. I believe in you. For an interesting read on willpower, check out this piece from the American Psychological Association: What You Need to Know about Willpower: The Psychological Science of Self-Control A funny thing has happened. Well, maybe it isn't that funny. Though, it's not particularly sad either. Honestly, it's probably the most mundane thing to have ever happened to anyone in existence. And yet, it fills me with awe and hope.
I moved from the west coast to the Midwest approximately one month ago. I can't be bothered to investigate the exact date of my flight, but somewhere between the 21st to 24th of April sounds about right to me. And while it has been somewhat of an adjustment, at times stressful due to loneliness, minimalist living, general anxiety issues, and allergies, I might actually be happy. I often think about my state of mind; a never-ending source of grump (so it seems). I find it both interesting, and frustrating that my irritability is shrouded with a dense fog that I can't ever seem to break my way through. And while this demeanor is generally the norm, it seems as though maybe the gusty prairie might actually be clearing the felled clouds of dissatisfaction. Since leaving California, I have a sense of clarity that I never knew was possible. While I've often felt an incessant thrumming of creative energy, my ability to focus on how to direct that energy was never quite there. Additionally, how to spend free time was often met with panic due to the looming specter of finite energy and resources, leaving me with choice-paralysis and feeling unproductive (read: unfulfilled). In this past month, the thrum and hum of creativity has been just as loud, but inspiration has finely begun to lightly spark (and possibly ignite). I see hope on the horizon as I finish reading book after book and feel neither guilt, nor urgency to rush my way through to the last page; I am legitimately enjoying my journeys rather than desperately attempting to reach my destinations in haste. I've regained my ability to have contemplative moments. I felt inspired to share a slice of life on my blog after weeks of silence. I sense the beginning of something marvelous. I'm ready to break myself open and share, unbeknownst to me, what has been gestating within. Stayed tuned. |
AuthorHeather Jacobs is a creative professional with over a decade's worth of experience in content creation. Her skills range from, but are not limited to, creative, copy, instructional, and technical writing. Archives
January 2021
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