A Season For Arrogance

So Christmas is over. Time to exchange the gifts that you hated, put the lights and decorations in storage, and put away your tense smile until the next time you have to sit through a meal with your relatives. Think of the thank you notes you have to write now.

When I was younger, I used to write stories for my relatives. Terrible stories. The sort that were awkward for everyone to read, because they obviously featured me as the protagonist getting everything I wanted: scoring the winning goal in the Stanley Cup Finals, punching a guy in the face, and impressing numerous ladies. Think of the embarrassment I have to live with now. More importantly, think of the hubris it took to think everyone else wanted to read something I had written about myself.

               Perhaps this is just the mindset of a child. But I think recently, I’d argue something different: this must be the mindset of a writer. Perhaps there’s a little more self-awareness now, but I’m still writing these days, still trying to get good enough that others will be interested in reading what I put on paper. I’d like to say this goal is realistic. That is my hubris speaking. I’ve cultivated this confidence, ignoring all evidence that indicates this will never happen for me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m perfectly aware that I need to get better, but my madness may well be the certainty that I will get better.

               Ultimately, this is the belief that all artists must cultivate. It can be bleak and terrifying to attempt this. There’s no one path to success. Some people achieve their goals as early as their twenties. Others continue to work in anonymity for much longer, somehow willing themselves to spend another weekend in, working on their manuscript’s 30^th draft.

Forget relatives. Christmas is a time to inflict another year of goals on yourself. It’s another year of questions: What are you doing with yourself these days? You still writing? When are we going to see this book in print? Do people from this century still write poetry?

               'Tis the season for the gritting of teeth and getting through.Tis the season for another year of horrible, misguided hubris. Tis the season for believing your work is worth it.