Two things drive me to write, and they are somewhat at odds with one another. One is the desire to entertain and dazzle. For someone to read my work and think “this person is very funny and also I am impressed with her astute observations and wordsmithery.” The other is to be known. For someone to read my work and think “wow, this person has suffered so much and is so complex and self aware!” What prohibits me from committing to the former is the deep desire for the latter. I have fantasies of writing tell-alls or releasing an hour(s) long YouTube video in which I tell the tales of my personal grievances, trials, and, of course, the wise-beyond-my-years insights to match. I’ve read several books, biographies, fiction, and those which combine the two, that I find myself relating to, which affirm that I too could write a book of such a nature. And then I read the comments on Goodreads. My eyes scan past the 5, 4 ,3 star ratings until I find the scathing 1 star reviews which enumerate all the ways in which the author or protagonist is a spoiled, pretentious, privileged, unbearable white woman who has never truly suffered; asking why anyone would enjoy this book, mocking the conflicts and perspectives of the narrative, received by a chorus of agreement from other scorned readers. In fact, it has become somewhat of a masochistic practice for me to read through these comments as if they are directed towards me. And so, I cannot imagine myself publishing a book modeled after the “biography written at 30” or “series of essays about dating and my eating disorder” a la Dolly Alderton or Melissa Broder.

Well this here isn’t a book. It is at no cost to my readers. I’m not taking up space on a retail shelf or amazon list. And while this by no means protects me from any form of criticism, it assuages some of the aforementioned guilt. But I still exist in the zeitgeist of the think piece epidemic. To make any sort of personal essay stand out, you must include at least three layers of context (the impact of the trader joe’s cauliflower gnocchi through the lens of black marxism: femininity, capitalism, and the domestication of corn) without being esoteric, or being accused of being esoteric by someone who just read the word esoteric for the first time on LetterBoxd.

I came across a tweet right around when I published my “Game Theory of Fuckability” post which destroyed me.

“She’s right,” I panicked. My essay was shallow, already done, boring. And what do I have to offer besides my experience as a woman in a capitalist society? I clicked on the profile to see what this person has for cultural criticism twitter instead of these trite and overdone topics.

It is a good essay. And I mean no cruelty in including this one woman’s content. It is more to show how complicated it is to express oneself online. The internet has allowed for anyone and everyone to share their thoughts, feelings etc. Yes, @bigdybbukenergy, I’m talking about social media and individualism- sorry. But I think the bigger reason for people criticizing other’s expressions of self, or exacerbation that not every person needs to share every thought, is because they don’t want to confront how unspecial they are. But even if I am able to triumph against the inevitability of banality, I am faced with another hindrance.

Every strength can be reimagined as a weakness. I guess the vice versa is true. I am adaptable, empathetic, and am able to hold multiple truths at once. In other words, I have absolutely no backbone or opinions of my own. I mean, I have the opinion that you only need to get to the airport 45 minutes before takeoff and that soylent is the most despicable invention of the 21st century, but when it comes to greater ideologies, those change day to day. I am in no way suited for the “think piece.” Not only am I incapable of original thought, but I am incapable of consistent thought. I read something and think, “why yes!” Often it is something that spawns self flagellation. “I am so stupid for not knowing this. So bad for being a part of this, for not fighting against this. I must adopt this thought and I must take action.” Until the discourse unfolds, and I see my new dogma ripped apart by strangers and peers. “I am so stupid for falling for that previous belief. I am so embarrassed for ever thinking that was right or good or helpful.” etc. etc.

Self awareness is important, sure, but it is not commendable. As Todd says to Bojack in season 3 episode 10 of Bojack Horseman, “You can’t keep doing shitty things and then feel bad about yourself like that makes it okay! You have to be better.” This quote plays like a refrain in my head throughout my days and weeks. The issue is I am far more concerned with being seen as good than being good (so Bojack core). If I just wanted to be good, I would’ve developed my own script for goodness, and take action in accordance with said script. This isn’t to say there would be no room for reflection or change. But I imagine I’d have a more concrete moral compass. But I don’t want to be right as according to myself, I want to be right as according to whomever I am being perceived by. This is a catch 22. Because for many people, having no opinion is far worse than having the “wrong” opinion. To write anything that takes a bold stance, one beyond “woman in capitalism is hard” would not only be dishonest, but would expose me as someone who really doesn’t know what the hell I believe most of the time. But I’ve just announced it, so… I suppose there is a third force which drives me to write. In addition to fantasizing about sharing my hardships, I fantasize about a publicized confessional. It may be my Irish Catholic roots that pump my veins with guilt, shame, and the conflicting desires of wanting to be absolved and to be punished. I am not entirely sure where the line is between vulnerability and putting the onus of my experience on someone else via overshare. 😀

In my first essay (so…. one of two), I said I did not want to be a Carrie Bradshaw who “couldn’t help but wonder,” about fairly ubiquitous experiences. I shared my admiration for, devotion to, and desire to be David Sedaris. He finds the absurdity in the ordinary. He crafts hilarious, poignant, and controversial stories out of just living his life– not him soul searching, dredging up his deepest fears, regrets, and burdens, though those do find their way into his narratives via more subtle methods than I’ve employed. I think I have far more metacognitive ability than cognitive development. I seem to only be able to think about what I think. I don’t know if I can just think. I think I expected this post to help clarify what it is I want from writing. I think I still want all three: the think-piece adjacent diary entries, the confessionals, and the Sedaris.