Imma be real with y’all a minute; I’ve felt so unworthy and insecure in my writing. But what’s so crazy it’s not even my words that I’m comparing to another’s, it’s me. Like, me as a person. I compare myself to these other writers. Their blog pages, social media pictures, and their lives they present makes mine look like an old outdated and out of style, faded patterned shirt found in the clearance section at the local Goodwill. (and not even the Goodwill in a fashionably forward big town, but more like the Goodwill in a little hobunk of a town. Cringe.)
Their pictures resemble an Anthropology spread, everything is in it’s perfect place and the lighting is so bright and washed out it’s as a scene in the movies when a person dies and “sees the light” with coffee cups strategically placed next to a beautiful Bible and perfectly manicured hands holding an frilly feathered pen atop a page out of their writing journal with handwriting so elaborate the founding fathers would proclaim a redo on the Constitution.
Their blogs are so fashion forward with trendy color schemes and adorably labeled tab buttons, it’s the epitome of chic and one is instantly transported to a sense of prestige and holiness that while reading the perfectly penned words scrolled in an attractive font I find myself whispering the words aloud in a British accent.( because my southern Alabama twang cannot pronounce the words they use correctly.)
And don’t even get me started comparing my family to theirs..My kids are currently in nothing but their skivvies covered in sand and dried pond water. Ew. Not to mention the donut glaze dried on their fingers and cheeks…and none of them have seen a hairbrush in 48 hours.
Nope. I can’t compete. If you’re looking for all that and a bag of chips..Well I got you a bag of chips but its half eaten and filled with sand..and it’s probably stale. But I’m not that beautiful, eccentric, free spirited writer whose got it all together.
I scream at my kids. I roll my eyes at my husband. I ask God “Why?”..ALOT. I don’t eat as healthy as I should. And right now I’m writing this bareface and messy haired with my favorite t-shirt and leggings on in my living room that has sand, discarded toys and clothes, and plastic wrappers strewn all over the floor and a mixture of Summer and Fall decorations on the walls because I’m in the process of transitioning decor and also because my kids decided to put our brand-new puppy who isn’t house trained and doesn’t know how to jump off of furniture yet, into my writing chair and said puppy peed on it.
My usual writing space isn’t garnished with inspirational quotes, attractive pictures of my family, and fresh flowers. My writing space sits in a corner of the room I lovingly, yet sometimes irritatingly share with my husband and 4 out of 7 days I have to move the avoided (aka the pile of clothes that never got folded.) The carpet is covered in stains from spilled drinks by wobbly steps learning to carry and drink out of a big boy/girl cup. And my Bible isn’t immaculate, it’s well worn and marked with neon streaks of pink, blue, and yellow.
And I’m learning that that’s ok.
So if you’re feeling a little insecure or out of place in the social media kudzu of pretty shades of pale pink perfection..come on over here and sit next to me, I feel ya girl.
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