I really dislike the antiquated notion of "woman's work", stuff like sweeping, ironing, dusting, window washing. But when i was 6 years old i knew nothing about gender politics, just that the center of my universe: MOM did these things and all i wanted more than anything was to be like her, and for her to love me. One day i begged her to let me sweep, she said the broom was too big and that i could not do it, but i tried hard and she seemed pleased. After the novelty of the praise i sought from mom and even that pat on the head she threw in for good measures wore off, i was stuck with a broom in my hands and a daily chore on my plate. I remember learning a valuable lesson soon after that: to never volunteer for anything-EVER. And if asked to do something, to do it as half-ass as possible to avoid ever being asked to do it again.
I have fared well with that lesson learned. I have avoided doing many things, and have found comfort in the freedom my under achieving affords me. For the most part, when it comes to my half ass endeavors i can give two shits what people think of my capabilities but when it's something i care about, something i wish to do well, i become a 6 year old looking for praise. The unfortunate thing about praise is that it is short lived and not to mention incredibly crippling.
Recently i have become angry, overwhelmed, and worried with my inability to write. I don't fancy myself a talented writer in the least, I'm just a gal from some place who truly enjoys the cathartic dance of words across a page. But old habits die hard and the fear of failure lingers like a motherfucker. I understand now that a good review is just as detrimental as a bad one, that the expectations that come with praise stymie creativity. Its easy to quit something you don't like, but impossible to deny doing something you love, even if you suck at it. So here i am 32 years old with a broom in my hands wondering what the fuck I've gotten myself into.
