Holy shit, this week has been an absolute MADHOUSE of activity and stress and sleeplessness and anxiety. I’ve had a bunch of writing and reading deadlines all piling up one on top of another, I have some drawn-out projects at work that need to get done, I feel like my mind is slowly but surely being crushed beneath the pressure but within the next 48 hours it should all (effectively) release.
I’m taking a Sketch Comedy Writing class and couldn’t get around to writing a sketch this week. Fine, cool, no problem. I go to class and one of my classmates is an older artist who, to put it simply, takes himself too seriously. Last night we were giving his sketch a couple of critiques, simple shit like “Shorten some of the dialogue paragraphs” or “Add some sort of activity to get them moving along.” It’s the kind of stuff every stage-oriented writer hears.
The guy then effectively freaks out on a rant saying how he doesn’t even like this sketch and he doesn’t like any of his sketches and he doesn’t want to write for a recital that will ‘only have twelve people in the audience’ and how he has $76 dollars in his bank account and how he can’t think about doing all of these critiques because he has to LIVE and his starving artist lifestyle is getting SO OLD and basically… Boo…. Fucking… Hoo.
The incident had me thinking a lot about what is ever worth being said. I reacted slightly to this rant but not to the degree I could–his entire complaint was so incredibly vain and someone wrapped in their own vanity of that nature can’t see outside their own view of the world to understand that EVERYONE in the arts has money problems and virtually no one has an easy life. However, I know he wouldn’t have understood. Therefore, it would be a waste of my time.
Other odd communication faux pas have come up recently, too–my journal getting discovered, for example, and a loved one finding things they didn’t want to read. Worries about a loved one reading this blog or some other random piece of writing and judging me or getting angry with me for it.
I’m starting to become a lot more leery about what is ever worth publishing. I thank the almighty cheese Gods low-key that xoJane has gone out of business and some crappy articles I wrote will be no more. I hope that some random essays I wrote in college in obscure lit mags will get buried in Google and never pop up again. Essentially, if I ever write anything personal I publish it and hope no one can ever find it, which is the exact opposite of how one should regard writing and publishing to a wider audience.
The only things at this point in my life that I feel are notably worth publishing are reportage on random topics or on an idea that I personally find interesting. The time is slowly coming to a close when personal narratives are the internet crack and shares and likes are all that matters. In fact, in my humble opinion, people are getting fucking sick of hearing opinions IN GENERAL. The state of politics? Psssshhhh, do I WANT to read another article on anything having to do with the president and identity politics and the Attorney General and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah?
Not really, because we’re all in self-preservation mode and, in one opinion you don’t need to know, I think silence is becoming something worthy of gold.