Tweaking is an interesting word. It has played on my mind for the last few months. Also, the length of time, I have not blogged. This might appear strange, but I don’t stress about blogging as much as I do about other writing. Most notably my two novels and my poetry books. Blogging is like a conversation. It is ongoing. Books are messages already sent and received. The damage is done, so stressing makes no sense. You don’t need to check sales and panic. Worrying is not a fun combination whatever it is paired with. Where is this leading? To tweaking, and to imposter syndrome, of course. Where else?
Whenever we begin a new project, self-doubt follows. Imposter syndrome, also called perceived fraudulence, involves feelings of self-doubt and personal incompetence that persist despite your education, experience, and accomplishment. That sentence you have just read is from an old post. I have tweaked it because I also tweaked the poem, Self Portrait, I had presented back then. You could say tweaking is my thing at present.
Tweaking represents an acknowledgement of less than perfect. From the owner of the piece in question. In fact, it recognises we make mistakes, and we are capable of rectifying them. I thought to start small and thus with my poetry. The novels I have more faith in. Perhaps they are not perfect but the emotional content in my romantic fiction is real.
I write about things I have seen, people I have met, stories I have heard and even at times, participated in. Details just get a little bent to keep the fiction safe. Imposter syndrome imposes but can be set gently aside. Well, okay that is bending the truth a bit, quite a bit. Why do I have more faith in one than the other? Fiction is fiction even with a reality base. Poetry is painful, raw, and exposing but not so exact. The reader can adopt and adapt to better understand themselves.
This is one of my favourite pieces from when I first decided I wanted the title of poet. Are we allowed to say this about our own work? I don’t mean it is necessarily good, but it is honest and raw. We don’t see ourselves in the best way despite knowing better. We humans doubt so much about ourselves. I doubt so much about myself but under the mantle of writing we can express and share. I wrote primarily about me in my first effort. In the one I am presenting today I write more on a universal level if still writing about my own doubts. Am I doing this to the best of my ability? Tweaking I hope, can push aside the imposter, and can decide for me. You can’t fix what you don’t face.
Stained Glass, a self-portrait (from my new poetry book out soon)
Intricate patterns of clearness
interwoven with butterflies and
tulips, and the stain of reality.
It is the mind represented
in colours beautiful, bold
and catching attention,
if only with superficial sight –
and thus, a little cold.
For only the eye
will recognise fragility.
Sight sees stained glass.
Pretty and pleasing.
The eye sees the delicate,
easily shattered perfection,
sees the possibility of
fragmental rubbish
when gazing on each
now separate section
of the whole.
The sight believes
the tiny shiny pieces
are meaningful still.
They were after all
an integral part of
the whole being.
To think otherwise
would be painful,
a disclosure, an admission
of seeing little,
and missing much.
The eye beholds
damaged goods
sitting so pretty
before becoming broken glass.
The eye sees colour
that comes at a price.
That fixation of glory
is a lonely path.
The eye acknowledges
the beauty as a small
but delicate part
of the untold story.
We are more than
a stained coloured
piece of pretty art.
We are shattered fragments
testifying to existence –
broken or whole.
See yourself, see us
with the eye and use
sight to clarify truth.
For sight sees the outer shell
But the eye pierces deeper
and may prevent
the descent into Hell.
See you next time,
Barb
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