Taking Oneself Too Seriously
Dark, mysterious, full of depth, insight, brooding over the pain of their lives so as to create something beautiful from troublesome pasts, from the challenges of the persisting present. Does this character sound familiar to you yet? Maybe I need to add the illustration that they are glued to their journal, never skipping a beat or wasting a drop of inspiration to become who their potential calls them to be. As an artist, it's true that depth is important; it is, after all, what we use to craft something that resonates with someone else's emotions. The pain we endure can become the insight that helps someone else rise above theirs, especially when we masterfully articulate the lessons we have learned. But the appearance is less important than the creation ...
There is a poison to the Artist's Persona. That is, the same poison that often sours anyone's mind: taking oneself too seriously.
This doesn't mean that depth, pain, challenges, lessons, and the articulation of beauty through overcoming obstacles isn't a real phenomena that often lends itself to help shape thoughtful, soft-spoken and introspective souls. This personality is genuine, and is frequent amongst artists for a reason, but the coupling arrogance of being consumed by this persona of creating avant-garde, resonating art is all too easy a trap to fall into. It is, unfortunately, what stops the good artists from becoming great. Caught up in their own (initially excellent) progress, they forget that they should be constantly learning; they forget humility, and in their high expectations of themselves, and their conflicting desire to fulfill the (nonexistence) expectations of others, they begin to craft pieces disingenuous to their true, heartfelt, sometimes plodding, other times sprinting, growth through life.
Growth is not consistent. Learning, seeking, and inspiring is a bumpy road that swerves down to dark pits as much as it reaches pinnacles of clarity. And it's for good reason, too! We have to be in the muck every now and then to learn how to escape it, and just perhaps, so we can help others escape their own nightmares.
Becoming a good writer, artist, communicator, or human, isn't about how 'good' we are at our crafts, or how wise, intelligent, or soulful we appear through our daily lives. It is, first and foremost, about the humility we embrace so as to let in the lessons life offers us on a daily basis. If we are too focused on appearing practiced in our ability to take in all of life's suffering and challenges, we will become blind to the very real possibilities underlying the obstacles that each day represents. Essentially, by attempting to dawn the guise of the master, we forsake the cunning, undervalued open-mindedness of the apprentice.
How do I know this? Well, I'm damnably guilty of it.
When I decided on the pen name Harlequin Grim, it was immediately after a brush with death. I decided, then, that if I was to bring my art, my insights, my soul to the world, I would do so through a name that portrayed my willingness to slough off socially acceptable tactics, a demonstration of tossing caution to the wind with a keen eye on the ephemeral nature of being mortal. I didn't need to be the name I was given at birth, but I didn't need to be anything different, either. I could be exactly what I wished to be, typical or not. So, quite giddy with self-acceptance, I picked a name that was as fantastical as it was resounding to the writer I am today.
Immediately after this, I felt a surge of renewed energy and inspiration as I crafted the first novel, poems, and short stories under this name. With a redesigned website and a transformed mission statement behind my art, I became a flurry of productivity. I wrote at least 2,000 words each day for a month, I sent out stories to contests, I riddled my journal with ink at the end of each night to reflect on what the day had taught me. I slept little but created often, I was a well of inspiration, and I was hoping to share it all.
But after October ended, the birth month of Harlequin Grim, I plummeted down again, readopting old habits of self-doubt and loathing that revolved around the person I had tried to grow out of. Quite predictably, quite desperately, my mind became a chaotic swirl of misinterpreting the daily challenges of life, forcing myself down into a spiral of deconstruction.
At the bottom of the pit beneath the cliff, the Fool lamented and asked, "Why?" but instead of truly answering the question, he instead forced, pressured, and bullied himself to be the great person he so aspired to be, or so briefly was. In came the masks, the guises, the false performances, the pitiful displays and attempts at being that 'soulful' and 'deep' character instead of the truly humble, honest, and crafty person we all have the potential to be.
Ugh ... gods. What a nightmare.
In hopes of relieving other writers on Prose of the same demon I suffer from, I came to this blank page to cast a blazing spotlight on my story, not to glorify myself, but to shed light on the innate problems that arise whenever we strive for ambitious or lofty achievements. After a series of successes, whether big or small, inflating the ego seems easy if not an entirely subconscious instinct. But in the storms of failure, we are graced with a blessing, a gift, an opportunity to remember all the reasons why we had come to our art, our lives, our humility in the first place: only, and truly, to be our most authentic selves, not to parade our best attributes.
It creates something of a paradox. When we are the best version of ourselves, our greatest attributes shine through broadly and transcendent. When we focus too hard on being the best version, we often become too self-absorbed to even let the light bleed through. Our darkness isn't transmuted into something beautiful, rather swallowed and regurgitated again for all to see.
Nothing more and nothing else should we ever demand of ourselves, than to learn from life's chaos and to present our findings, in all their awkwardness, their humor, their sorrows, their pride, their nakedness. We know we cannot be perfect ... so why should we ever, ever, ever expect our art or our lives to be?
If we strive to emulate perfection, to lead perfect lives, to be a perfect individual, we risk forsaking the authenticity of our development, the rough grinding that first inspired us to become better people in the first place. We risk, in essence, the entire purpose of what it means to express ourselves.
Each and every one of you has nuggets of gold, this very instance, growing within you. Don't let the desire to show them muddle their essence. They will blossom when they will, when you least suspect the too, when you do the simplest of things: creating and living without expectation.
I appreciate all of you from the pits of my confused psyche. If I promise to embrace myself, will you do the same? If I promise to accept inspiration, whether it come from good or ill, will you do the same? If I promise to forget myself so as to let truth seep through the mask, will you do the same?