Happy 2023, everyone! 

I hope your New Year’s celebrations were filled with joy, peace, and merriment. We shared a lovely, quiet night in my household. My spouse and I played games with our children and watched the ball in Times Square drop live (this may have been so our children could go to bed at 9 instead of midnight). Then we snuggled with our dogs until the official moment when 2023 graced the Pacific Coast and went straight to sleep. It was delightful.

But now that 2023 is upon us, I must make a confession. I am not usually one to make resolutions. Perhaps it is related to ADHD, but I struggle with all-or-nothing thinking in my goal-setting and avoid setting strict milestones for myself. My only New Year’s resolution is to improve myself this year. I want 2023 to be filled with personal growth as a writer and a human being. Therefore, in tribute to the New Year (and in the interest of transparency), I wanted to share something I wrote at the beginning of my writing journey in 2022 titled “Self-Indulgent Moping.” 

I know. Great title, isn’t it? I must confess, my dears, I tried to think of something vaguer to call it, but I would not dream of giving it a more oblique introduction. “Self-Indulgent Moping” is precisely what it claims to be: a scathing, if honest, view of my ability to handle rejection and writer’s block. It is a raw portrayal of how I respond to setbacks and difficulty and, therefore, the best benchmark I can give myself as I proceed. 

Besides, I believe some of you can relate. Rejection comes with artistic territories, and thus I am sure many of us have experienced the sinking feeling that accompanies, “We regret to inform you.” Additionally, artists know that most of our answers are likely to be “no’s” or “not now’s.” Yet no matter how aware you are of this fact, the conceptual knowledge frequently butts up against the pride we have for our work. And if you are like me, maybe that friction between pride and rejection produces a sense of failure. This is your sign that you are not alone, nor are your feelings invalid. However, you may need to pick yourself up and try again. And again, and again. At least, that has been my experience. 

Wishing everyone a promising start to their new year.  

-Beni

“Self-Indulgent Moping” — March 2022

I stare at my computer screen until my glazed eyes grow blurry. The empty word document teases me in its virginal white. The black cursor blinks unrelentingly at me as if to ask, “Well? Am I going to move across this page or not?” The past three hours of typing and backspacing the same sentence would indicate “not.” Words simply will not come. This is not only true of original thought but even for borrowed launching points. I have read through every abandoned prompt file in my folders to no avail. What could I possibly be missing?

I begin to understand. 

The moment of realization is not epiphanous. Instead, it grows inside me with the slow-burning sensation of being boiled alive. My cheeks flush with heat, and my skin prickles as I sweat into the seat of my office chair. “Oh dear,” I muse, “It’s just me. I have absolutely nothing special to write.” I switch tabs and open Pinterest.  A mire of inspirational posts on my thought board offers such platitudes as, “Write what you know. Find your voice. Show the world the story only you can share.” These hackneyed phrases dance before my eyes with the same gleeful cruelty that a B-movie serial killer would exhibit before their victim. “Yeah, that’s not going to help me today.” 

My palms press into the soreness behind my eyes. I rub my hands over my face. I wonder if, along with the dried flakes of mascara that irritate my eyes, I can wipe away the guilt and self-pity inside my head. The playlist of “pensive piano music” that I typically enjoy sounds like cacophonous banging today. I turn it off and plop my forehead down on my desk for the twentieth time today. 

When I finally muster the strength to lift my head, I open my email with a sinking heart. The bold title, “Magazine Submission #4582 Top Hats, Tails, and Traitors,” waits at the top of my inbox. 

“Dear Beni, thank you for sending us “Top Hats, Tails, and Traitors.” We appreciate that you took the time to submit it for our consideration. Although your work doesn’t fit….” 

The voice in my head begs me to stop reading, but I finish the three-sentence rejection letter anyways. 

“…our magazine at this time, we wish you luck placing it elsewhere. Sincerely, The Editor.” 

I don’t bother stopping the tears as they come. Each burning droplet sliding down my face leaves a sigil branded into my skin. These signs work, in turn, to summon the demons of insecurity I have had to exorcize from my mind time and time again. “Useless. Worthless. Pointless. Hopeless. Talentless.” All the “lesses” that make me feel “less than” rain down on my T-shirt and stain it with tiny dots. I berate myself mercilessly.

I should have known better. I told myself I could handle the rejection here, but I promised that to myself in blissful ignorance. Authorship was the only artistic arena in which I had never struggled. I naively assumed that the refusals and critiques that stood foremost in my other endeavors would be infrequent in this new journey. But, of course, I was horribly wrong. 

“You really shouldn’t depend on the praises of childhood English teachers to make career choices,” my internal dialogue bitterly taunts. “It’s like acting all over again. You foolishly trusted directors who said, “You’ve got something!” and decided you could be an actor. “You’ve got something,” ha! Yes, Susan, I guess I do have something: ADHD, imposter syndrome, and crippling depression. Hurray!” 

The wave of petulance finishes sweeping over me, leaving behind the sting of recognizing my immaturity. I really never learn. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Back to work. We’re not going to do this again: you don’t get to quit. Not this time.” I reopen the tab, which remains a crisp digital page awaiting a narrative. I crack my knuckles, stretch my back, and type: 

Today’s affirmation: Just write. 

Don’t judge.

Don’t despair.

Don’t even edit.

Just write from the heart, and the rest will come. 

I love you. 

I like the direction this is taking.