Sometimes when I fall into myself, a see a dark pool of worry. Lately, I’ve been feeling that my creations are mundane and pointless. Who the fuck would want to buy what I make? Who the fuck would care what I have to say? I have been in an indecisive pendulum of what grad program I want to go into: American Indian Studies or Creative Writing? I fear being denied by either program, my creative side and my Indianness. I feel silly and giddy for applying to American Indian Studies, and selfish and enthralled applying to Creative Writing programs. I haven’t been consistent in my writing. As you can see, my last post on here was in February. However there’s a longing within me to learn more about my history as a Native American, a Navajo woman, living in a brown body. There’s a longing within me to write, because books influence me and I love sounds, alliteration, the way prose can make and break a heart all at once. I want to share with others feel how “Their Eyes Were Watching God” made me feel. Books have so much power.
This is my authenticity.
My ADD has really been grinding its molars in my memory, and it’s been driving me nuts. I recently read Dog Flowers and remembered this deep fear I had about taking a class I so deeply desired in undergrad. It was a course for writing memoirs, truth telling. But I was so afraid I couldn’t write anything special, because I can’t remember much of my life. Oddly enough, ADD and anxiety wipes away memory, and I lived in fear and felt and still feel that I haven’t done anything remarkable or interesting enough to write down and share. To even write down. To even write down what I cannot remember.
This is my vulnerability.
I have an idea that my time as a twenty-something is limited. I will grow old. I do not want to live a life of regret, one where I wake up one day and wish “darn, I wish I’d done.” I feel like as a woman, my time is oddly limited. I do not want children. I cannot imagine rearing a child when I am so selfish of my time, my energy. Sometimes, I have no energy at all to interact with others. I pull inward and sometimes wallow in my bitterness, sometimes deep dive into my cavities and listen. I am odd and I have a hard time understanding myself. I am contradictory and live life in between. I am indecisive and it drives me insane. Should I go to grad school for creative writing? Should I go to grad school for American Indian Studies? Should I pursue writing music? Should I pursue making jewelry? Should I? Should I? Should I?
This is my fear.
This is a rant.