Well, that is not entirely true. I have. Just not logistically.
A couple of weeks ago I was trolling through Google looking for what, I can't even remember. In my search I came upon a link to a blog that must have had something to do with what I was looking for, I suppose; so, I clicked on it and was brought to a writer's blog site and forum called Open Salon.
I cruised the layout on my cyber wheels for about an hour and was impressed because it was so interactive. A writer would put up a post and other writers would read and comment on it. Immediate peer feedback! What could be better.....or more terrifying?
I decided to give it a go in spite of the hard knot in my solar plexus and the caustic refrain, "You're no writer! Are you nuts? You don't belong there!" that circled the inside of my thick skull like a noxious vulture of cognition craving another morsel of despair and regret.
I listed my first post on May 10th, and I was so hungry for connections that I was cutting and pasting two posts a day, which I have since learned is not terribly smart. There is so much on O.S. with so many, many contributors, and because there is so much there to read, they tend to read only what is headlined on your page without scanning down for earlier efforts.
Of course, unbeknownst to me at the time, this meant that half of my blogs were not getting any recognition, and the one featured was up for such a short time because of my quick turnovers that it, too, was hardly garnering more than a glance before it was replaced.
But in spite of the apparent lack of interest in my blogs, I was happy to be there and absorbed myself in reading the excellent writing of others as well as making some whose writing I particularly enjoyed, my 'favorites. That is another benefit of this particular site. You have the ability to select and then to follow and comment on other writers who appeal to you. And if a comment needs to be made that is of a more delicate or personal nature, you have the option to send a 'PM', personal message. That is also a method used to connect more deeply with another OS writer when camaraderie is evident.
But on May 13th I received my first comment and made my first OS connection. It took a few more postings over the subsequent five days before I finally found myself receiving more than one or two comments per. One contributor in particular was impressed enough with my efforts that he sent an email to all of the OS'ers he knows introducing them to my work.
That was on May 19th, and this same contributor notified me a couple of days later that I had done what is virtually unheard of in that I landed a number three ranking in 'popularity'; something, he informed me, that usually takes a 'newbie' a minimum of eight months to a year to achieve, if they achieve it at all, which most do not.
I read that message just after consuming the whole of a Saturday morning and half of the afternoon writing, "Hello, My Name is Susan and I am a Word-aholic" and burst into tears.
I have waited my whole life for validation like that. Okay. Not my 'whole' life, but certainly since my 7th grade English teacher informed my mother and father that I had a gift and was writing well above high school level. It was the first, and basically, the only, positive endorsement from the halls of academia ever to grace me and I clung to it with the ferocity of rabid animal. It was the only positive, the only gift, the only good that I could then honestly associate with myself. Without it, I was invisible; with it, invincible.
The double-edged sword there is the unexpected but very real, deep fear of loss that it ignited within me.
As long as that ability went unchallenged and unrecognized, there was little risk of failure, and without failure to dim the gift or disprove it, it remained true and it remained mine. No matter how badly I failed in all the other areas of my life, (and there is a vast array of them) I could, and did, say to myself, "But I am a really good writer."
Of course, the only ones aware of this were those I corresponded with via letters or email or the smattering of those who stumbled upon a poem I'd written here and there via those connections.
But it didn't matter. It was my gift and it made me acceptable to myself, and on days when I needed it to, it let me believe I was above average and special, at least in this one area.
I protected my ability in order to retain it. Talk about backward logic.
Art was a different matter. I have no innate talent in that area and have had to work hard to get even this far; much harder than I do with the words, which come effortlessly and need only editorial attention to craft into something halfway unique, compelling and worth reading.
I am not a natural artist. In fact, any legitimate artist will tell you I suck at it. Oh, I have ways of injecting enough dazzle into it to make it somewhat interesting, odd or appealing, but nothing spectacular. My work is mediocre at best. At worst, it is confusing and primitive.
But the bottom line is that I don't care about it. Not in the way I do about my writing, and if someone were to say to me that they find nothing of value in my artwork, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. I don't see anything of value in it half the time either.
However, if I were to be faced with indifference or repeated rejection with my writing, I would have to leave civilization and go live in an abandoned bus in the Alaskan wilderness. I would have to become fiercely religious, change my name to Shanti and give up all worldly attachments.
I don't really look like a Shanti. It would be very awkward.
Happily, my experience exposing my words and, really, my soul, to the intelligent readership of OS has exceeded my wildest dreams in terms of positive response and validation, and I am so relieved I don't have to live on that broken down bus.
Just yesterday another OSer informed me that a group of editors had anonymously submitted my latest post ( a repost taken from this blog site and written in April) to the OS Editor page, which is a page of recommended reading. But apart from that, the comments I have been receiving are well-beyond mind-blowingly supportive, and my mind is duly blown.
Apparently my ascension from obscurity to highly-praised visibility on OS has been abnormally swift, and while I know that life is full of flukes and that nothing, even the things that temporarily seem to place us at the top of the heap, lasts forever; I am working it as though my life depended on it and as though rendering my words immortal is all I am here to do. In many ways I believe it is.
I know that this is just a first step. A baby step, at most. But it IS a step and one that is encouraging in me a great run up another flight. I can't describe it and already feel awkward and self-aggrandizing relating this much. I have no one else to tell. So I transcribe my joy in this blog for whomever is listening or even vaguely gives a damn. Believe me, no one in this house does.
But I will likely continue submitting my writing efforts to OS indefinitely. I will do as I have done, which is to compose the blogs here first, then just cut and paste them onto OS. The reason I have not been as consistent in writing here is because I've been cheating and doing a cut and paste on pieces I have already written here then reposting them on OS. Obviously, I'm not going to post them again in this blog spot, which means that sometimes nothing new gets posted here for a few days.
However, if you would like to go to Open Salon and type in my name, Susan Creamer Joy, you would have access to everything. Even the comments, although I don't think you can leave a comment there unless you sign up as a site member. It is free, but it still might not be for everyone.
So, that is where I have been. Still right here, still attempting to craft a wordy bridge from my subjective reality to one I don't naturally trust and barely understand. Nothing has changed. Except that everything has.
For the first time in my life, I think I can break out of this corroded, beleaguered, hard shell surrounding me; the composite blend of everyone else's life but my own with its jagged outer layer of my compendious regrets and failures sealing the mix tight against my soul.
Fear is not an option. Neither is restraint.
I'm all in.
And if anyone would like to join me, please do. But as I said, I will still keep posting the new things here as well as there. However, during those stretches when I cannot be found slamming out prose and poetry here, just go to: http://open.salon.com/blog/susancreamerjoy
You will likely find then, a repost of something I wrote here initially, but odds are it will have been edited and tweaked a bit. The bar is much higher writing in plain view of the excellence on Open Salon.
It forces me to reach into pockets of possibility for the odd bits of perfection and gum wrappers I might have stashed in there.
I am sure there is the chance I may not find you there, but one thing I is certain: I will find myself.
Of course, unbeknownst to me at the time, this meant that half of my blogs were not getting any recognition, and the one featured was up for such a short time because of my quick turnovers that it, too, was hardly garnering more than a glance before it was replaced.
But in spite of the apparent lack of interest in my blogs, I was happy to be there and absorbed myself in reading the excellent writing of others as well as making some whose writing I particularly enjoyed, my 'favorites. That is another benefit of this particular site. You have the ability to select and then to follow and comment on other writers who appeal to you. And if a comment needs to be made that is of a more delicate or personal nature, you have the option to send a 'PM', personal message. That is also a method used to connect more deeply with another OS writer when camaraderie is evident.
But on May 13th I received my first comment and made my first OS connection. It took a few more postings over the subsequent five days before I finally found myself receiving more than one or two comments per. One contributor in particular was impressed enough with my efforts that he sent an email to all of the OS'ers he knows introducing them to my work.
That was on May 19th, and this same contributor notified me a couple of days later that I had done what is virtually unheard of in that I landed a number three ranking in 'popularity'; something, he informed me, that usually takes a 'newbie' a minimum of eight months to a year to achieve, if they achieve it at all, which most do not.
I read that message just after consuming the whole of a Saturday morning and half of the afternoon writing, "Hello, My Name is Susan and I am a Word-aholic" and burst into tears.
I have waited my whole life for validation like that. Okay. Not my 'whole' life, but certainly since my 7th grade English teacher informed my mother and father that I had a gift and was writing well above high school level. It was the first, and basically, the only, positive endorsement from the halls of academia ever to grace me and I clung to it with the ferocity of rabid animal. It was the only positive, the only gift, the only good that I could then honestly associate with myself. Without it, I was invisible; with it, invincible.
The double-edged sword there is the unexpected but very real, deep fear of loss that it ignited within me.
As long as that ability went unchallenged and unrecognized, there was little risk of failure, and without failure to dim the gift or disprove it, it remained true and it remained mine. No matter how badly I failed in all the other areas of my life, (and there is a vast array of them) I could, and did, say to myself, "But I am a really good writer."
Of course, the only ones aware of this were those I corresponded with via letters or email or the smattering of those who stumbled upon a poem I'd written here and there via those connections.
But it didn't matter. It was my gift and it made me acceptable to myself, and on days when I needed it to, it let me believe I was above average and special, at least in this one area.
I protected my ability in order to retain it. Talk about backward logic.
Art was a different matter. I have no innate talent in that area and have had to work hard to get even this far; much harder than I do with the words, which come effortlessly and need only editorial attention to craft into something halfway unique, compelling and worth reading.
I am not a natural artist. In fact, any legitimate artist will tell you I suck at it. Oh, I have ways of injecting enough dazzle into it to make it somewhat interesting, odd or appealing, but nothing spectacular. My work is mediocre at best. At worst, it is confusing and primitive.
But the bottom line is that I don't care about it. Not in the way I do about my writing, and if someone were to say to me that they find nothing of value in my artwork, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. I don't see anything of value in it half the time either.
However, if I were to be faced with indifference or repeated rejection with my writing, I would have to leave civilization and go live in an abandoned bus in the Alaskan wilderness. I would have to become fiercely religious, change my name to Shanti and give up all worldly attachments.
I don't really look like a Shanti. It would be very awkward.
Happily, my experience exposing my words and, really, my soul, to the intelligent readership of OS has exceeded my wildest dreams in terms of positive response and validation, and I am so relieved I don't have to live on that broken down bus.
Just yesterday another OSer informed me that a group of editors had anonymously submitted my latest post ( a repost taken from this blog site and written in April) to the OS Editor page, which is a page of recommended reading. But apart from that, the comments I have been receiving are well-beyond mind-blowingly supportive, and my mind is duly blown.
Apparently my ascension from obscurity to highly-praised visibility on OS has been abnormally swift, and while I know that life is full of flukes and that nothing, even the things that temporarily seem to place us at the top of the heap, lasts forever; I am working it as though my life depended on it and as though rendering my words immortal is all I am here to do. In many ways I believe it is.
I know that this is just a first step. A baby step, at most. But it IS a step and one that is encouraging in me a great run up another flight. I can't describe it and already feel awkward and self-aggrandizing relating this much. I have no one else to tell. So I transcribe my joy in this blog for whomever is listening or even vaguely gives a damn. Believe me, no one in this house does.
But I will likely continue submitting my writing efforts to OS indefinitely. I will do as I have done, which is to compose the blogs here first, then just cut and paste them onto OS. The reason I have not been as consistent in writing here is because I've been cheating and doing a cut and paste on pieces I have already written here then reposting them on OS. Obviously, I'm not going to post them again in this blog spot, which means that sometimes nothing new gets posted here for a few days.
However, if you would like to go to Open Salon and type in my name, Susan Creamer Joy, you would have access to everything. Even the comments, although I don't think you can leave a comment there unless you sign up as a site member. It is free, but it still might not be for everyone.
So, that is where I have been. Still right here, still attempting to craft a wordy bridge from my subjective reality to one I don't naturally trust and barely understand. Nothing has changed. Except that everything has.
For the first time in my life, I think I can break out of this corroded, beleaguered, hard shell surrounding me; the composite blend of everyone else's life but my own with its jagged outer layer of my compendious regrets and failures sealing the mix tight against my soul.
Fear is not an option. Neither is restraint.
I'm all in.
And if anyone would like to join me, please do. But as I said, I will still keep posting the new things here as well as there. However, during those stretches when I cannot be found slamming out prose and poetry here, just go to: http://open.salon.com/blog/susancreamerjoy
You will likely find then, a repost of something I wrote here initially, but odds are it will have been edited and tweaked a bit. The bar is much higher writing in plain view of the excellence on Open Salon.
It forces me to reach into pockets of possibility for the odd bits of perfection and gum wrappers I might have stashed in there.
I am sure there is the chance I may not find you there, but one thing I is certain: I will find myself.
