I secretly, deep-down harbor a hope that my words, diaries, boring class papers and half-assed artistic attempts will outlive me. And I don't mean they will linger in an attic buried in dust for a decade after I'm gone. I fantasize about them being "discovered" "finally" and lauded as brilliant pearls. "How sad she never knew what a talented and appreciated artist she was," they will say.
There are two issues with this closely held wish of mine. If I'm talented enough that later folks will appreciate and want to be exposed to my thoughts then why don't I take a risk at present failure and try to produce more and put my thoughts and ideas out there now. The opposite side of that is that my inner monologue is also its own worst enemy. As soon as the little diva inner Maria says "my voice matters, I have something of import to add to the body of what is public," the inner critic Maria (who is quite articulate and intelligent) adds "you have unrealistic beliefs in your abilities and you intrinsically know that you only have mundane things to say."
The real problem is that the diva is maybe six years old and the critic likes 50 cent words that diminish the diva. Damn inner conflict. Inner.... wait, watching this 18 month old at the table next to me throw crayons at the table of "auteurs" trying to have an extremely significant conversation is more fun right now.
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