In the comments awhile back, someone wrote that she likes my non-substantive posts because they make me seem “more human.” Yikes. I hadn’t meant to appear inhuman, I emailed her. In response, she sent a very nice email saying that she felt my writing made me seem somehow unreachable.
I’m here to tell you guys, I am mightily insecure sometimes. I don’t like how I look since having children. Not my body. That’s fine. When you have a metabolism like mine, most of the calories go in one end and then hitchhike to Guam for the weekend. But, I look tired and drawn out. My hair is unkempt. I don’t even own contacts anymore because, should I ever get a chance for a nap, I want to be prepared to shut my eyes instantly. I accessorize with things like oatmeal and urine that missed the toilet.
While I do not post pictures of the boys to protect their privacy, I do not post my own picture for two reasons. 1) Too many pictures and links drag down load times. 2) Who the heck wants to see a picture of me looking like I do right now? But, if Blog Antagonist can be brave enough to post her picture, darn it, I will post mine.
That’s me. Well, actually, that’s me with Benjamin’s head while we admire waterfowl together. I had to go all the way back to August to even find a picture of me that I could crop the boys out of.
Oh, and you don’t have to comment how lovely I am. You are all really nice, and I know you will, but I won’t believe you anyway. I told you I am insecure.
Lately, however, I am not just insecure about my looks. These days, I am mighty insecure about my writing. Some days, I believe in myself. I query agents, hoping to find someone who wants to help sell the book; I glow when they ask to see the manuscript based on my writing sample. Then, the rejections come in. And I take it hard. Awfully hard.
I try not to. Who cares if I don’t sell the book in the long run? My life is still pretty darned good. But, now and then, self-absorption and insecurity come bopping along.
Edited: Big chunk chopped out so I wouldn’t lose Chani’s respect
Am I as insecure as I was when I was thirteen and the ugliest girl in my eighth grade class? No. (Could you imagine going through life like that?!) Am I feeling a little less talented, less attractive, and less of an intellect than I would like? You betcha.
How’s that for making me seem human?