Railbirds

you+suck

Critics.

All of them.

The people who tell us to give up, are the ones who feel they have failed. But the truth is, the only way to actually fail – is to give up.

This is the speech I give myself each and every time I want to throw in the towel. Life would be so much easier if I stopped trying, because then I wouldn’t have to be disappointed.

The railbirds in our lives add to the perpetual need for an escape plan. The people we thought were our trusted guides turn out to be nothing more than pessimistic and downtrodden folk who love to share their disappointment.

At the end of the day, their supported is about as effective as a ten-year old bra missing it’s underwire.

It’s good to remember that are a product of our decisions – both the ones we make and the ones we avoid. It is an inescapable fact. So is – we can’t really blame the critics for saying what they think, we can only monitor how we react to their words.

If they speak at all.

Sometimes silence is the loudest critic. Not hearing, not receiving feedback, not getting a reply to an email you sent a week earlier. It is the one thing you so desperately desire.

The want is almost crippling.

As writers we are creative folk. We’ve decided to spin and weave and knit facts and fiction together – creating thoughts, emotions, stories, etc. And when you reach out and the person doesn’t reach back… Our stories leap from the computer screen into our head, worst case scenarios on steroids.

How wonderful would it be to be an island? Sadly, needing the help of others along the writers path is inevitable. Simone and Garfunkel are alone again.

This post is an example of me trying to bolster my own psyche as I wait for a return email. My mind has been doing flips for days and the imaginary railbirds I’ve concocted over the years  are drinking pints of ale, mocking me relentlessly.

“Told you, Aryn. You’re writing isn’t worth a dime!” Gin blossomed nose, stale breath, and a rotund disposition. I wonder why I paint myself as a down on your luck hobo circa 1925 when I choose to self sabotage? Oh, Freud… at least it wasn’t my mother.

Alas – it’s back to that “making a choice” moment… and while one little voice tells me its time to give up, turns out I can’t stop myself – even if I try…

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