Self-Obsessed

"I am my own muse." - Oroma, & me, & you.

When we’re kids, we stick out our tongues until they dry out, touching them like slips of pink leather, marveling at their otherness. We repeat words until they lose meaning. Push up our noses and pull down our cheeks until our bottom gums are white and we’re falling over laughing.

At eight or nine years old, that kind of up-ending of your reality is fun. It’s exploratory. There are (mostly?) no irreversible consequences. It’s like looking in a mirror during an acid trip but without the terror of knowing your face is about to slide off into the sink forever.

But as we age, we start to ask, “What does it mean to be who I am?” What does it mean to be unguarded and vulnerable? How do I trust myself to know I’m doing what’s best for me?

If you’re an artist, you are either part of your subject or simply a conduit for its existence. Of course, you’re always part of its DNA, but when it comes to writing, specifically, do you make yourself a character? And what does it mean to involve yourself in your own creations?

I’ve languished with this newsletter because something about it being called a “newsletter” makes me believe that it must be useful. That what’s in it must have some practical application for the reader.

I’ve doubted that simply sharing my thoughts is enough. Which isn’t at all something I worried about when I first started! Writing was something I fell in love with as soon as I realized it was a way for me to understand myself and writing about my inner life felt like truly important work. I wasn’t worried that it didn’t contain enough critical analysis of internet culture or whether it helped you put together the perfect outfit for running into your ex at the grocery store.

But since I’ve met more writers, online and in the real world, and as the pressure to monetize and publicize and make something that will “sell” has mounted, I’ve started wondering if it’s too selfish to write like I like to. Whether it’s not a great strategy for gaining an audience. Or whether the kind of writing that I really love is interesting to enough people.

I’ve stared into the mirror too long and I’ve read too many tweets. I’ve thought too much about whether people will like what I’m making. And what’s happened? I’ve all but stopped.

Anyone who makes things has to have worried about this stuff at some point. It boils down to relevance, right? Because there’s doing your art for the sake of doing your art and there’s doing your art in a way that can help you pay bills.

But an hour ago, I thought of when Oroma Elewa said, “I am my own muse. The subject I know best. The subject I want to know better.” And it’s true. I am the center of my own galaxy. And you, yours. And Oroma, hers. And isn’t that fascinating?

I do want to know myself better. And I believe that’s a universal truth. I think it’s something we all want. So, what I’ve decided today is that the danger is not in perceiving yourself, but in believing that your perception is the only one. Because what we make isn’t for us to judge. And what I write isn’t for me to criticize.

What will pay the bills? I don’t know. But I know this newsletter is full of thoughts and thoughts have utility. Every thought that finds us is a thought that can change us.

I know that everyone who creates should create from their own perspective, full stop. And regardless of the story, we exist to exchange ideas. Some narrator has to broker the exchange. And whoever that narrator is, is a fine enough narrator.