I Mean Tea Party in the Theoretical Sense

So I've been up all night driving myself slowly insane throwing an impromptu tea party for Doubt and her adopted sister Fear, who are not, by the way, particularly gracious guests. I don't know what it is, but something's been eating at me lately. Part of it must be the shambles I see whenever I find the strength to hold my head up and have a look around at the empty room that used to be my life, but I think it's more than that. I think it runs a little deeper than shame or dissatisfaction. Must be mortality.

But this is the right age to start pondering it, right? I mean, my biological clock shuddered to life sometime last year and immediately began trying to trick me into believing that I like babies in a lean and hungry bid to ensure I don't take my leave of this world without leaving an indelible imprint. If my ovaries are concerned about whether or not I'll contribute anything to the human experience, that's got to be a hint for my more sensible bits to follow suit.

I have been tying myself up into knots since 8 pm (we are now rounding 6 in the morning and it is a beautiful sunrise, wish you were here) worrying that I have nothing inside me worth saying or, worse, worth hearing. And what's the fucking point if that's true? If what I contribute doesn't resonate with other people and shape their realities as they shape mine, couldn't the whole thing be chalked up to illusion and perception and let's all be done with it?

But I got some excellent advice indirectly via twitter - let it be known that my twitter feed, specifically, is the great bubbling wellspring of all wisdom and insight - and it has occurred to me that maybe I worry too much.

"What if my work never connects with anyone?"

Correct response: So what?

I'm not saying that isn't important to me. It's so, so important, and everything I've dreamed of all my life. I don't want to be rich, or famous, or beautiful, or clever. I want something I think or feel to resonate with another person and so create something new, because that is the innermost core of the human experience. I want to write something someone likes. That's it. Really.

We dream pretty big up in Taylorsville, didn't you know?

But sometimes I get to feeling that what I'm working on or whatever's weighing on my heart at the moment isn't going to be worthwhile to anyone else in the world, and I think, what's the point? As if my experiences are immediately invalidated by being mine alone. What's the point of singing without an audience? Why speak if no one's there to listen?

The point is singing. Speak because you have something to say.

I can't control whether anyone listens, or if they connect with me when they do. Audience reaction just can't be the reason to get up in the morning, to sing or write or do the thing you do. It occurs to me that even if I spend my life speaking into an empty void, at least I'm speaking, and that's more fulfilling and steadying and nourishing than silence borne of fear. Fear of rejection, fear of irrelevancy; these are risks that come once the glory of the initial endeavor is already wrapped around the brave adventurer that so dare speak up. They're icing on the proverbial cake of accomplishment.

In summation:

If nobody likes my books, fuck 'em. I like my books.

(Which isn't to say I don't want you to like my books.)

(Please like my books.)