Shut up Mary Darcy!

 Maybe it's just me.

I'd like to think it isn't, but  maybe it is.  Except it's not. I'm sure of it.   

Stop me if the following sounds familiar.

You think about something. Then you think about it some more.  You decide you have something to say.  In fact, you're certain you do. So you write it down -- or, more likely, you open your computer and hit the keys. You compose a draft -- as clearly, as concisely, as creatively as you possibly can.  Then you walk away.  And you come back a while later, take another look and are suddenly filled with self loathing. You say "What the F*$k was I thinking?" or something less vulgar, but equally self deprecating. 

Maybe it's the sentiment of the piece that bothers you. Maybe it's the perceived level of talent. Maybe it's the sheer avarice involved in expecting anyone to pay attention to your thoughts in a world where there's Netflix and Hulu and HBO, CNN, NBC, MSNBC, The New Yorker,  and the New York frigging Times. Then there's the daily barrage of tweets, texts, updates and alerts coming to our droids and iPhones at lightening speed. Oh, and somewhere in a 168 hour week we're supposed to eat healthy, exercise, get adequate rest,  hold down a job, do laundry and hopefully develop, oh, I don't know -- a hobby, and while we're at it,  some quality human relationships. So, you think, "With all that who has time to read this drivel?"

And there you sit, alone, with you finger hovering over the delete button, questioning the reason for your whole existence.  Maybe, you think, it's just best to go back to consuming what other people create.  

Anyone? Anyone? 

Creating anything is an act of daring.  Especially in a world that tells you to sit down and shut up. And who, in one way or another, hasn't been told to shut up? Who hasn't been made to feel like they aren't quite right, or worse, that they are flat out wrong -- not their ideas, but them, themselves -- just as they are.  The voices of others can eventually become the voices in our heads. They can make the perfect the enemy of the good until we begin to wonder -- "why try?" 

But when did perfection become the sole reason for doing something? When did art for the sake of art or self expression for  understanding or connection or -- you know -- fun, become wrong?  Not that we shouldn't strive to be better, or develop a craft -- but should only trained singers sing? Can you paint if you've never taken a class -- but just because you think it's fun? Can you write,  even if all the people who have told you to shut up have become the loudest voice in your head?  

I don't know.  

Let's find out.