(7) Challenges

To be an artist means to deal with Mr. Insecure. We all know him- he's the insidious guy inside our heads that first cheers us on, but then suddenly slips back into the closet of our minds to change his halo into horns. He starts yelling through the curved groves of your brain, "You suck! Just admit that you're no good and move on!" His maliciousness surprises your unguarded mind so much that you nearly stumble and begin to wonder, 'Why is he doubting me so much? Is he right? Am I just kidding myself? Maybe I should take that safe, insipid job around the corner?'

Mr. Insecure attacks the fiercest when one creates art that others might actually see...for example, oh, I don't know, a public blog. As a writer, it is impossible to know what someone truly thinks of your work while he or she reads it. One reason being, you cannot physically be there to nervously discern your readers altering facial expressions. 'What does that raised eyebrow mean? Are you smiling because I'm funny, or because I'm so bad that it's funny?' Also, if you do have the auspicious chance to ask your reader questions about your work, who knows if they are just lying out of love and reassurance?

At times I am insecure about my work, but I am secure enough to openly admit it. I constantly ask my friends and family "Well, what do you think? Do you think it's good?" They usually respond positively to which I reply, "But what do you really think?" I'm skeptic of compliments, but I am working on this problem. Sometimes, I'll take Mr. Insecure outside and confront him. I'll threaten to end his life forever, but then he quietly reminds me that without him, I wouldn't be whole. I wouldn't be as neurotic, clumsy, or cautious. I would instead be overly confident and naive. So, even though I've tried to drown Mr. Insecure, he bobs up for air every now and then to remind me that I am sharing this artistic pool with some that are better than me, and some that are worse, but at least, together, we are all trying our best to swim.

Another challenge one faces as a writer, specifically a food writer, is the obvious fact that you are not eating with me. You cannot smell what I smell, or taste what I taste. You cannot even see what I see, unless of course, I photograph it. It's similar to watching an actor react to a bad smell on TV. As a viewer, you can't smell it, but you see their horrified reaction, making you cringe out of empathy, but not out of experience. For this reason, I will do my best to give you copious details, or to paraphrase one of my favorite Chekhov quotes, I'll try my best 'not to tell you the moon is shining, but show you the glint of light on the broken glass.'