I’m short on patience these days — which is not news, and I’m sure I’ve said it before. Maybe it’s one of those end-of-your-twenties things, the pressure of the bud before the bloom my thirties have been promised to be by so many older friends.
I think complaints should come with a plan of action to make the complaint obsolete.
I think too much time is spent in circumlocution.
And, yet, here I am, writing on the internet, instead of bluntly saying so aloud, because I don’t want to be seen as mean or strident. Because women being direct is mean. Or strident. Or, more commonly, bitchy.
I also hear that I will care less and less about how I’m perceived in my thirties, too.
I went to a writing event – my last one! Hooray! – and left annoyed that the two featured writers barely acknowledged the extremely privileged platform from which they leapt into being published authors. Let’s gloss over the Ivy League educations, the family friend who happened to be a Fugitive, the famous newspaper editor who knew your grandfather. Let’s ignore that you can get drunk with an editor because you were the same gender and no impropriety would be perceived. Let’s pretend this is all about craft.
Before the event I was talking with a friend about weak bonds, about keeping the surface looking normal while being a mess underneath, about complaining about the same things over and over again. And we both found ourselves saying, do something about it or stop coming to me about it. But that’s it, isn’t it? Thinking you have power over your own destiny is a sign of privilege too, one I need to recognize as well.
Not to say that means I need to subject myself to litanies on repeat, at least not all the time, but it’s something I’m pondering.