Sweet potatoes are the best. And they are best described in Ralph Ellison’s story of a black man coming to terms with his identity entitled “Invisible Man,” in which he has always avoided eating his favorite childhood food, hot buttered yams, sold by street vendors, so he would not be stereotyped, as he now works in an office in a suit. But he finally accepts his true love of the food, stops by a vendor, puts down his briefcase and eats the wonderful sweet salty treat with abandon, proclaiming in his mind, “I yam what I yam.”
Personally, in 7th grade art class, we were given an assignment to bring in pictures to illustrate how to show distance. One techniques was loss of detail. I brought in a picture from Mad Magazine where a little boy had just cut off the tail of a cat with a pair of scissors and labelled it “Loss of De Tail.” He looked at it for a moment and said, “You want to add this to the other examples in your portfolio?” Man had no sense of humor. He lost it by living a life as someone he wasn’t.
In each of the two narratives above, one fictional and one a true story, two different people for completely different reasons had stepped away from who they really were to fashion lives that didn’t reflect them at all. They felt justified in doing this when it started because they never imagined the path would lead them to where they ended up.
It starts with a single compromise to oneself – doing a job you hate to achieve something you want or putting your own art on hold to pay the bills as a teacher. But to maintain that compromise, you need to make another, and another in support of it until you’ve built up a whole network of interconnected dependencies that form the bars of a framework behind which you are self-imprisoned.
You’ve put so much effort into building this damn thing called “your life” that you can’t bear to let it go – like a cancerous tumor you’ve become really attached to, to the point you won’t let anyone remove it from you.
Captain Kirk said, “I need my pain,” when he was offered the chance to become “magically” angst-free. Our pain is the scar we wear, the badge of honor for all the suffering we endured on the way to the life we have fashioned for ourselves. It defines our struggle, so it defines ourselves, or at least who we have become.
But is that who we really “are” much less who we would want to be? Of course not. But are we willing to change? Hell, no! We’d not only risk everything and everyone we have, but will then have to face that maybe those aren’t the things and people we really want. And then there’s the kids, and all those who depend upon us, and our responsibility to future generations….
Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
But in this case, it is not the after-life we fear, but life itself. Can we really face having to acknowledge we’ve spent years of our lives weaving a fabric with a horrible pattern that doesn’t reflect us at all? And wouldn’t THAT be dandy, to not only have to face that knowledge, but then to crash it all down in order to be ourselves so all we end up with is lost time and nothing at all to show for it? Gambler’s syndrome – if I spend a little bit more I’ll eventually score big enough to cover all of my loses and still come home a winner.
No, it’s not an easy place to go. But as artists, we head right for that place like lemmings, subjugating our Muse “until later” or because we need to be “responsible.” Seriously? What kinds of lame excuses are these?
Don’t lie to yourself that it will happen someday, because it never will – not on its own. It will only happen someday if you make it happen. And there’s no time like the present. Yeah, sure, okay, you’re not going to abandon your family and head off to another continent to rediscover your Muse (though some have done just that). But you probably won’t. I never have, but I’m no freaking example of much of anything, ‘cept to myself, of course.
No, you’ll probably want to write the great American (or some other nationality) Novel or Screenplay, and you’ll “grunt and sweat under a weary life.” to try to make that happen while still trying to maintain everything else. After all, J. K. Rowling did just that, didn’t she?
But honestly, how many J. K. Rowlings are in the world? One, of course, So give up the dream of writing what you want and expecting it to make mega bucks. Could happen, but you’ll probably have better odds with the Lotto. Besides, as soon as cold, hard cash enters the picture, your Muse seizes up in a mental charlie horse, all twisted up and contorted into a Gordian knot of creative deadlock. Oh, yeah. That’s fun.
Listen my friends (I can call you my friends, can’t I?) if you want to be happy in writing, just write whatever you freaking want. And write it how you want. And tell it the way you want it told. But never sell out your Muse for security – oh, no… Just take a job on the side and realize it has nothing to do with your creative self. Be truthful, it’s just for the money. Differentiate between your worker-bee self and your inventive spirit self, and don’t ever, not now, never, under any circumstances lock the two together or they will both go down into the deep and you along with them, waving to yourself like Ahab on the whale of your reality as your inspiration sinks below the waves leaving no one to tell the tale because the damn writer in you just drowned in self-pity and was never heard from again (though some mindless husk continues to crank out text under the same name).
You yam what you yam. Eat it.