Oh. my. god. I’m surfing the per$onal development blogosphere, these people must be stopped. Quit smoking, be nicer, lose weight, discipline, this is how I celebrate my self-hate, happy new year!
Shoulds are lies, striving is deception, self-improvement is a definitional disgrace, I could go on, but I know what everyone’s doing out there. What all puritans are supposed to be doing right now.
Everyone chasing resolutions go work on yourself. I’ll wait. Come back when you’re ready to give in to the consolations. Lesson one: watch author Deb Olin Unferth take a personal inventory, file under “framing abundance.” Well, I did. This isn’t safe for work:
If you enjoyed that you might want to read what she has to say about it in Bookslut, here.
When that story first appeared in McSweeney’s a man wrote a long blog entry about how much he hated it. He said that he hated the story so much that he took it to the local workshop and read it aloud as an example of bad writing. He said that the story sent him into a deep depression. It lasted for days and days and he kept writing about the story and how much he hated it. He got locked out of his apartment. He had to sleep in his car. He lived in a very cold place and there was snow and wind. He had laundry to do. He locked himself out again and had to go sleep at his parents’. The depression deepened. He wrote about how much he hated the story, and how he was afraid of love, had betrayed friendships, had failed, lost, disappointed. And that damn story, it was not even grimly humorous. I loved those entries so much. I read them over and over and over. I kept trying to get people to read them with me. My boyfriend at the time said finally, “No, I don’t want to read it again. I don’t think it’s funny.” But I thought it was so funny and so sad, beautifully written, touching. It expressed exactly what I wanted to express with my story but he did such a better job, was so much braver than me. He wrote at the end, “God, give me hope, bless me please.”