#485 – How does writing train you in presence?

Living inside yourself as a writer isn't always easy: it's full transparency, TMI around the clock, with things you'd rather not see.

Yesterday I got a rejection email: my application was “deemed less competitive.” I brushed it off because it was for a part-time gig I wasn’t pursuing for the money or the prestige. Did it disappoint me a little? Yeah—I'd thought I was a strong candidate, but I let it go.

This morning, as I caught my reflection in the mirror, a pang showed up: what if I'm not who I think I am? I followed this thread in my morning pages and saw the Ghost of Need to Prove living in me since I was four and wanted to show everyone I could debone my own fish at a restaurant. I saw her, this blond girl, gold-rimmed glasses, one lens patched, showing off her fish-eater skills.

What was I pursuing with that small-town community-college application? I wanted someone to confirm that yes, I am good. Valid.

The alternative would be to feel superior: their loss––I don't need them. To distract myself with thoughts outside of me. But because I write every day, looking under the rugs in my mind has become my default mode, and I can't not see the truth.

Of course, you can always choose distraction: you can still blame the world for your "bad luck," an ex-spouse for your unhappiness, or the weather for your dissatisfaction. But the exercise of staying with your thoughts until you can express them in words forces you to see what's real. And once you do, there's no unseeing it.

What might you see when you stay present with your thoughts long enough to write them?

Love,

Carolina