Dear Diary, 9, Finding Authenticity (Cue the Panic)

Dear Diary,

Okay…

Here we go…

Not even really sure how to start this one…

I took some time off this weekend to get out of my mind by locating my creative self. I played some tunes, wrote some speculative fiction, prepped a bit for an acting class I started, read, and sketched. I mean, like drawing, not sketching on a skateboard behind a cop car in protest of the decision. 

Missed opportunities. 

I hoped taking time off would give me some space, and I would get back into the office yesterday and just find that groove. I got a good start Monday morning, and after an excellent workout, I got into my office...

And…nothing.

Lots of false starts. After finishing each session where I got anything, I found myself laying that delete key.

But no need to despair! I have a new writing buddy. 

We are both transitioning in different ways. The support is necessary, not just for the writing, but it is lovely to cultivate a budding friendship. And, it is excellent commiserating with someone while learning new approaches and honing old strategies. 

And most importantly, if we miss our goals, we are hyper-critical of each other. Like really brutal because I heard someone on a podcast say that negative feedback and shaming were how Tolkien and Mr. Tumnus collaborated. If we have learned nothing else in the past decade: follow the examples of mythical characters and old white dudes—especially if we heard it on a podcast where they romanticize smoking dope, eating lots of meat, and Tesla.

Kidding on all counts, would never listen to a pod like that. Fortunately, nothing like that exists. Right, Diary?

In all seriousness, out little writing friendship is all about support and cheering each other on, no matter our progress.

It's quite fantastic. 

I know writing is a game of highs and lows, but for my thesis, the lows have been low and highs lower. I have been working on this for long enough. I should be done with it two or three times over. But I keep getting hung up on something. So now, the question is, what's my hang-up?

Come December, no matter what, I AM OUTTA HERE. So I don't think my block is about dragging my feet. I am ready to be done—savoring every day like it is my last with no regrets.

Along those same lines, I learn differently than a lot of people. My brain just takes me much longer to move, focus, and make the connections. The speed at which graduate school operates has put me in a weird position. 

Hot take: the fetishization in history departments to read a book a week is so unnecessary and toxic. 

It's like making a distance runner sprint. 

So I have learned to hang with it, be patient, and trust it will come.

Not going to lie, though; I might be panicking, just a tiny bit. 

And since I am admitting it, I'm panicking a lot. 

A voice in the back of my head keeps jeering: "if you are not done yet, you're never gonna finish." That said, this voice is annoying but very soft compared to what it once was. It is also a more toxic part of my perfection. This voice means good, it just doesn’t help. But it tells me something important.

It tells me the block is prolly expectation, also rooted in my perfectionism. The thesis itself will never be perfect; I don't really care about it being perfect. But I want it to be authentically me.

By authentic, I mean locating a particular spirit–maybe a tone, and/or expression, and/or feeling—to drive the narrative. 

I want this thesis to mean something. I want it to speak not just towards a historical story but my journey these past three years. I returned to Wyoming to address some unresolved issues and pick up my life, which I did. And rather successfully, if you will allow me the brag.

Still, wanting this type of spirit is a unique ask for a history Master's thesis. They are usually bland, dry husks filled with fancy-pants words and obscure research. 

My approach is totally unnecessary to earn the degree.

But I am not doing this for a degree. I am doing it to overcome the challenge. To show that academia means something more than a degree. Life is a cartoon already; we might as well just have fun.

It is not like I can't do it. My committee members are all super open-minded and will give me space to play. However, it won't work without precise execution and a lot of tact, rigor, and nuance. And this spirit can not be forced; it needs to come organically.

And, the problem: I honestly don't know what spirit and authenticity actually mean. 

The longer I search, the more desperate I feel. 

Cue the panic. LOL.

I will know it once the spirit finds me and brings me into the fold. 

I don't know if it will find me. But I gotta trust.

That is the magic of writing and the magic of life. 

I never knew I would find Aspen when I came back here three years ago. I never planned on going to D.C., or Portland, or Eugene, or London. I never thought I would meet all the wonderful folks I have met along the way. 

So much good has come from the unknown, working hard, and loving radically. 

I mean, look at me now, Diary. Chilling with y'all in the shade of this ever-growing, twisty grove. 

So, I don't know what this thesis will look like after today. But it will eventually take shape. And when it does, oh boi, that will be a sweet, sweet day. 

I hope you'll be with me to celebrate.

Thank you for listening and letting me break this whole thing down. I feel a whole lot better. 

Don't know about you, but life seems pretty magical.

But sometimes, it helps to take a step back and have a quick breather.

More to come, promise.