MY DOSTOYEVSKY COMPLEX

When I was a teenager, I often would lose myself in elaborate, detailed fantasies - a rehash of an argument in which I always said the perfect thing, writing my Oscar speech, romance with either the boy next door or Marlon Brando, even Ben Franklin suddenly materializing on my couch and I had the job of explaining the modern world to him - what little of it I understood._

     One day I had a realization. There was another word beside fantasy for what I was doing - writing. Oh, I thought, this is what writers do, they make things up, so maybe I have a writer's head. It was the first building block in my gathering the courage to set pen to paper.

     It was hard going.  I had what I called my Dostoyevsky Complex - if I couldn't write as well as he did, what was the point of trying? Even then I knew this was ridiculous. I was looking for reasons to be silent; as much as I wanted to be a writer, I was terrified to write and wanted no part of that terror.

     Eventually, wanting to write got the better of my fear. I'd turn something out and some times, many times, the world welcomed it. But there was a big problem. I couldn't seem to do it with any consistency. It was as if I blurted something embarrassing out all in a rush and then had to run away. If someone liked something I wrote and wanted more, I felt it as a burden because I believed that I couldn't deliver. Don't expect anything of me; you'll only be disappointed. 

     Which brings me to the issue behind the issue. In every area of my life, not just writing, I had no confidence that I was good enough. I wasn't smart or talented enough, those I elected the "right people" wouldn't want to know me, I wasn't pretty enough or flamboyant enough...once the litany began, just about everything could be included.

     It took a long time to get down to that tangled knot.  I didn't want to do more than skim the surface of the fear inside me. But life has a way of bringing us to what we need to know and again and again, pain, frustration, disappointment forced me to my knees. The moment of surrender may be a tremendous relief, but getting there isn't pretty or easy - habit and the internal censor don't want to let go and no one does it with any grace.

     Somewhere along the way, I began to ask myself, good enough for what? Every answer seemed a variation of good enough to be perfect. Well, clearly that was never going to happen. So was I supposed to resign myself to being less that I wanted? It took me a while to realize that wasn't the question to ask. It was, what can I do to quiet the fears and doubts? To become able to see out beyond the chaos in my head? What can I do to be my most productive, most loving self, my best self?               
     Those are questions I have to ask over and over again and will never fully answer. That's all right. In a way I don't want answers at all. I want to be in the midst of the questions, moving forward, working my way to whatever is authentic and true for me. I want the voyage out, onto the open ocean, with me unafraid to lose sight of land. Trusting that I'm making progress. That's good enough for me.