WRITING

The unfortunate thing is, I can’t just sit here and think about writing.  I actually have to do it. 

Yet here I am staring at everything and anything; intentionally falling down rabbit holes in an exceptional display of procrastination and avoidance. 

So far today in my effort to not write I’ve

  • Spent countless hours trying to find 100% beeswax scented candles with 100% cotton or wood wicks from small, American business.  (Thanks, Etsy!)
  • I spent 3 hours building a playlist that I then discarded.
  • I hand washed a sink full of dishes. (I have a dishwasher)
  • I spent two hours trying to find a vegan recipe for pasta that included cannellini beans, broccoli and mushrooms and would cook itself.
  • I spent 90 minutes following facial massage videos on YouTube.
  • I made a special trip to Whole Foods because my face serum was on sale (I have two new bottles already)
  • I created a bed from old sweaters and fabric scraps then spent 30 minutes convincing my cat it wanted to be tucked in it for a nap.

But mostly I regretted ever mentioning that I was working on my own writings to everyone who follows me on Instagram and mentioning that I would finally drop a post on my blog because I figured the accountability would be adequate motivation.

<insert obvious outcome statement here>

This epic bout of procrastination has nothing to do with a lack of motivation or a lack of topics or a lack of ability. It has everything to do with believing that I have a place with artists; that I am good with words.  It has everything to do with Audacity.  It has everything to do with Vanity.  It has everything to do with Ego.  I had a discussion last year with a friend where I disclosed for the first time ever (to myself as much as to her) that if had I made choices solely focused on me and my desires my life would be so very different and at no point in my life would I ever say “I work in tech” when asked  “So, what do you do?”

Despite the lessons and the awards and the recognition for my music or my words or my movement there was never any support to pursue those fields. In fact, it was quite the opposite.  Dance and music and writing were classed as hobbies and should forever stay hobbies.  In many immigrant households these are skills you will acquire and become proficient at and be praised for but the minute the discussion turns to turning a passion into a livelihood the discussion takes a turn for the worse.

“You disappoint me.”

“You’re not good enough to make money at that.”

“I don’t work hard so you can be useless when you grow up.”

You had three career choices as an immigrant’s child and a child immigrant of the late 60’s: Doctor, scientist, engineer.  I obtained a degree in International Relations.  My lack of scientific or technical aptitude would be blamed on my white half because the myth of the model minority says that whites don’t do the sciences as well as the Asians, so it wasn’t any shortcoming of my Asian parent in that regard. I had an amazing career in tech despite not being an engineer.  But my title was never Doctor, Scientist or Engineer.  It was not one of the 3 ideal careers-success be damned, and it was the cloud that hung over everything my success brought me.    Child prodigies notwithstanding, there is no way in hell your immigrant parent would ever proudly say “My child is a singer/dancer/writer” before you had achieved the highest accolade for that field.  And even then, you would hear how your success is fleeting, the byproduct of a bit of luck.  There’s no way your success could be sustainable so don’t give up your day job or be grateful you have something to fall back on.

This isn’t an attack on the motivation or intention of my or any immigrant parent.  Their thinking comes from fear.  It comes from poverty.  It comes from sacrifice. It comes from upheaval. It comes from love.  It is understood. But understanding doesn’t make it palatable or lessen the sting.

Many of us choose not being a disappointment.  Many of us choose career paths to ensure we can repay the sacrifice.  Many of us choose to avoid the arguments and the passive aggressive family gatherings where the doctors, scientists and engineers are lauded while our parent hides in the kitchen or just stares at us wearing their disapproval very much like a martyr wears their wounds.

We then grow up and we spend decades doing well but not doing what we are passionate about until one day it seems like maybe we could do that thing we wanted to do.  But by then we’ve started to believe we’re not good enough and we’re too old for this and it’s too risky and we will be disappointed.  We envision empty chairs in theaters and songs no one will listen to and words dropped into a void that will never be read.  We decide that we have fewer years ahead of us than behind us and guess it’s too late now.

I’ve been paying for this website for nearly two years because a momentary flash of confidence motivated me to do it immediately.  And then I got scared of the void that it might be a portal to.  Soon after I let inertia partner with my ego and a fair bit of insolence, and they created all the excuses I needed to be okay with the recurring bill to nowhere.  I’m not sure that is a bad thing.  It has been easier to pay the monthly fee and say, truthfully, “I have a blog” -albeit an empty one- than to say they were right, and my time has passed.  It’s been idle, but alive. Dormant. My digital cocoon.

There’s a notion that the thing you should be doing with your life is the thing you ran around as a child telling people you would be when you grew up.  I don’t want to say “I work in tech” anymore.  So is this me dropping words into the void?  Or is this me reminding everyone of what I decided I would be when I was 5?

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