My head is in a whirl. My ideas, my dreams, my illusions (because aren’t they all the same thing?) lie shattered around me. I am living through an existential crisis.
This whole thing was precipitated by walking into a used bookstore. They had a huge selection of bygone authors and classic stories, in all genres. As is typical with such places, the romance section and the science fiction section were fighting for dominance. Most of these books I’ve looked at in the past – especially when my wife was managing a bookstore – but I’ve never read even a tithe of them. And it suddenly hit me – anything I could add to the pile would be completely insignificant. My books and my name would just be one more footnote, one more bygone author to file after Dobson and before Dodge. Forgotten.
I will never be important. My little stories will get lost in the shuffle, and no one will read them ten years after my death. The same goes for my artwork – I may eventually have a few collectors, but who will care, really? My art is not ground-breaking. None of my singing will ever go on a record. My acting will not be remembered. I am a cipher. A nobody.
Darkness and depression and despair! If there is one thing I have believed about myself, all my life, either openly or carefully hidden – is that I am meant to be important! I am supposed to be the hero, the mage, the brilliant artist, engineer and philosopher! I am supposed to be the living embodiment of all that’s possible in humanity – a literal Doc Savage, dammit!
And yet … it’s all a lie, isn’t it?
I’m very quick to state that most people are not important. They’re interchangeable, like cogs or light bulbs. The greatest share of humanity will never amount to anything – I just didn’t think I was one of them. I’m intelligent, right? Brilliant, even. I’m talented and witty and fun. But I’m also mysterious and dark and conflicted – an edgy anti-hero. I’m a creator! Look at all the stuff I can do… None of it matters. None of it is important, or startling, or even really new. I’ve been fooling myself this entire time, thinking I was someone special. (And don’t give me that ‘everyone is special’ bullshit – that’s just flat fucking untrue.)
I can feel the echoes of the Hammer of Truth, vibrating through my psyche. What I felt in that bookstore was the truth, and that I needed to feel it. I even know who swung that hammer at my pretty little house of lies and brought it down. I recognize that God has brought me to this place in order to continue my healing, and I’m grateful for that – at least in theory. But crap, that HURT!
I’ve said for years, by the way, that most people don’t really know what they’re saying when they call Jesus ‘the Great Physician’. It’s true – he knows precisely what kind of healing we need and when. But what most people miss is that he doesn’t do things the way most doctors do. Most MD’s will start out by relieving the pain, treating symptoms and testing for causes. He already knows the cause, and he opts for surgery from the start – with or without painkillers. Because certain kinds of pain are actually good for you. Suck it up, buttercup.
I also know that this is God in action, because the one part of me that he applied morphine to was my depressive nature. No need for me to be wallowing around doing more damage to myself. And also – the biggest single hit was to my pride. He wants that dead.
So. What now? Do I drop all my artistic pretensions, give up writing and painting and acting? I mean, if I’m never going to be great, what’s the point, right? Maybe I should just resign myself to living out my life in the shadows, like so many others, rather than try to be something I can never be. God would be good with that, right? I mean, no chance my pride would get out of control again – and obviously I would want to avoid that. That seems like a safe and logical line of reasoning. Somehow, I don’t think that’s what He had in mind at all.
I have been granted mighty gifts. He is very clear that He wants me to use them well. Whether any wealth or fame is showered on me by the outside world is not my concern, and completely beside the point. My pride is an issue which I will probably never be free of, this side of Heaven. I am fully aware of my narcissistic nature – I was basically trained to be this way from the cradle up. But I see it now and can avoid much of it. However, the will and ability to create – in a number of different capacities – is in my very bones. I can no more stop creating than I can stop breathing by willing it. And I don’t think He wants that.
I think that what He really wants me to do, what He wants everyone to do, is to use the gifts we’ve been given – certainly to help others when we can – but just for the sheer joy of doing so. I cannot be responsible for the outcomes, only He can. The answer to this whole business is this: If I am creating in order to be important, or rich or famous – that’s the wrong path. I simply have to create because I can, because I must, for the sheer joy of the task.
This whole blog has been a long-winded way of saying that my self-importance and my pride need to be squashed and broken. They get in the way of me producing my best work. And whether I am ever remembered for my work is also unimportant. The Work itself must be all. If anyone even reads these words, thank you for your patience. I will try to be better.
Be well.
bcd