Isn't that just the way?

I have a confession to make. I discovered that my writing talents and my writing aspirations don’t quite jibe.

I know, I know. This sounds a little woe is me. Stay with me though.

Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by my own suspicions that you might be judging me. I have discovered that my writing talents and my writing aspirations don’t quite jibe. I grew up reading the classics. I have a degree in literature. I had the privilege of studying and teaching some of the most amazing contributions to the literary world. I love the beauty of well crafted, poignant prose.

Alas, I have found that what I write is saucy, voice-driven, and sex-laden. That is, when it isn’t dark and angry or violent. I wonder why it is that I can’t seem to be deep. Why I can’t concoct a tale that is winding and seemingly arbitrary, yet ultimately proves to be indisputably genius. Take Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. I seriously don’t see myself breaking through with anything close to that any time soon.

This feeling is very similar to the way I feel when I consider what constitutes the ideal body. I envision a wide spectrum of options for physical perfection. Usually it involves long legs that are simultaneously slender and sinuous. The knees are straight, not knocking. Hips are delicately curved, like the arch of a Grecian bow. This ideal butt is pronounced, but not overly articulated. Full but not floppy breasts that flow beautifully and softly from strong, yet subtle shoulders. I’ll admit that I don’t see it often, but there it is. The me I’d like to be.

I’m an equal opportunity admirer – except when it comes to myself of course. I have a wide range of other possible ideal body types. I can probably find five examples of body types I admire (and would trade for my own in a Manhattan minute) every day.

Of course, seeing real life examples of everything I am not is a lot like reading very good literature. I bask in the beauty of the words, the quiet profundity of the articulated sentiments, only to find myself taking in my own reflection with a sigh.

I hear my mother’s voice in my head; her words are shrieks of mortification. Blasphemy. I am beautiful. This is the way God made me. There are a million girls who would love to have the body that I have. And on and on and on. The words grow faint as her pitch climbs to one only the dog can hear.

Now I add shame to mediocrity. I am mired by a serious case of the not-quites. Awesome.

I inhale deeply and try my best to think of something else. Nothing brings clarity like avoidance, right? And then it happens. Someone calls me sexy. Not someone trying to get into my pants or someone related to or married to me, but some neutral party calls me sexy. It’s the foregone tone of the words that give me pause. The way they sandwich it into the conversation without any hesitation whatsoever. The speaker takes in my form, looks longingly at my curves -- my floppy boobs and thunderous thighs – and tells me that they wish they had them.

I miss the rest of what they are saying. I am in shock and trying desperately to look self assured, like their words didn’t just fall on me like manna from self-esteem heaven.

I consider this. Is it more important to find admiration – somewhere, anywhere – than to find that you admire yourself? Or (and I feel like I could be on the precipice of something big here folks) perhaps the trick is not only to see beauty, but to seek the beauty in ourselves and our contributions. To look at the flaws and the not-quites and recognize the function and the truly admirable aspects of whatever it is we bring to the world, be it floppy boobs and thunderous thighs or largely titillating and suspiciously superficial prose.

Okay, so upon review, I have a new confession to make. Perhaps a series actually. I’m not Catholic, so I think it’s okay that I am making these confessions to you without a priest present. After all, they aren’t exactly sins, but I digress. The confessions.

I confess that I believe my writing qualifies solidly as mediocre, and that means I’m better than at least fifty percent of the population. That’s a glass half full in my book. I also confess that, despite my history of fervent denials, my mother may have something to offer in the way of wisdom. And finally, I confess that there might just be something to love about the in-progress draft that is myself.