Honesty: An Ephipany and a Confession

When I was at university I crumbled because I realised I was a phoney. I’d considered the possibility for a long time, but I had it confirmed for me there in less than a month. My arrogance had gotten me A level results, shitty A levels in shitty subjects, but results they were and my arrogance had used those to get me into a two-bit university on a Mickey Mouse course.

My arrogance had done very well for itself by all accounts, but when the semester, and lectures themsleves started proper I knew my arrogance didn’t have what it takes to make me a success, to get me through it alone.

For a year I relied on this dominant aspect of my personality, allowing it to stand up and justify my drink and drug fuelled nonchalance. I mention the booze and drugs not as an excuse, just for context. But during that time of ego driven audacity, focused on doing nothing of effort and worth, another personality trait built itself up slowly, quietly, until it had completely overtaken the running of the show.

Subservience. Spinelessness, the inability to believe anything my own mind concocted that contradicted another person, because surely they knew better than me right? I mean they could say words that had meaning behind them, emotion behind them. They must know better than me.

And I kept hiding for a long time, reacting in ways I know people would want me to, appeasing everyone, being phonier than I ever could’ve believed I would. Just so others would think me likable because of my overwhelming urge to be agreeable.

Reacting, not interacting.

And it still goes on to this day. Even though I’ve gained confidence and pieced together bits of what I think I believe, which is still very little, I still betray these thoughts, myself.

At work I refuse to stand up for them, I choose to denounce them and instead find reasons to fortify the bullshit of others which permeates around the bar. It’s why I’m the best barman in town, why I’m the best barman in a backwards community.

I started having these personal revelations because I’ve been trying to figure why I hate my writing beyond the usual necessary tortured artist routine. And I’ve sussed it.

It’s not honest, it’s guarded and during the earliest moments of the writing process it’s convoluted by pandering to what I think will be considered clever, to what I wat the big boys to think of me. And whilst bits may sound original and clever, every piece is speeding off to a false start, flying out the gates with a brace strapped to it’s leg by being written in the wrong manner for the wrong reasons.

Today I started reading Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger, someone once told me it was their favourite book and as I write this I’ve already nearly finished it, which is non small accomplishment for a slow reader as I am. It slammed home that my realisations about my writing are inseperable from realisations I have to make about myself, they go hand in hand and skip happily down the road towards a sunset with a subheading titled wisdom.

I find myself wishing I’d read the book when I was told about it, but reading it any earlier would’ve negated any effects it had on me. Except maybe to inflict this same American twang I’ve inflicted on the poor buggers who’ve read this far.

Conclusion? Getting back into reading has done me the world of good, I’m enjoying catching up on the 8 or so years of emotional growth that they missed out on helping to foster. But really seriously, as in I’d kick your arse if you dared interupt the next part of this sentence, no longer does my arrogance prevent me from listening and no longer does my subservience defy me from answering.

Stop trying to be seen as clever, be honest and don’t pander to those you seek approval from.

That goes for writing words, but it will go for my actions as well.