When I Fail To Be Pretentious

Totally unrelated collage I made. I've been really into Sylvia Plath lately. 

Some time ago I wrote that things were vey hectic in my life, little did I know that was just the begining. The last few days have been blur of graduation ceremonies, extracurricular activities, parties and late night essay writing sessions. There is no time in between to really register what actually happened. My body constantly seems to be ahead of my mind.

This intense level of constant activity has also made me realize I'm a true introvert. I do really enjoy all these social events, but after a whole day of being around other people, I am exhausted and feel like I need  time to enjoy some aloneness (which, I might add, is very different from loneliness). My social-exhaustion also changes several habits I have, including the books/Tv-shows/movies/music I 'consume'. I find myself throwing my 'sophisticated smart (/pretentious) people'- literature to side and picking up easy reading YA series. I suddenly go on a Disney Channel- movie binge and my favorite musice genre changes into 'love songs about high school boys'. 

These entertainment choices go against everything that I as an entertainment snob (I know, it's bad) believe in. I'm that person who proclaims there is no hope for society when I see trashy reality TV and go on a thirty minute long rant when I see some book about an unrealisticly sappy romance is on the top of the bestseller list. This is not just outward appearance. I do truly love my high-brow-intellectual-pretentious-person entertainment and get sad when I see it doesn't recieve the recognition (or at least, I think) it  deserves. I hate to see a theatre or museum close because lack of visitors or really cool artists not getting a big enough audience to support themselves. I am (or was) truly puzzled about why others can't appreciate poetry or 18th century lit or some indie film, like I do. 

Another totally unrelated picture of my messy art supplies.

My own change of behavior this week has really made me cirtically look at my attitude. As I observe that the busier and more exhausted I become, the simpler my entertainment gets, I wonder if all that artsy-intellectual is only appealing for those who have time to worry about it. There are many great literary novels that, however brilliant, are actually really depressing. They're inspiring and thought-provoking, but not something I like to read after a long day of studying/work/socializing with family you barely know. Sometimes I already have to many things to worry about to leave room for some fictional artist's existential crisis.

I know that there are many more much more complicated factors that influence what kind of entertainment/media a person consumes, but perhaps I should be more understanding when I see 'said book about sappy romance' sell better than 'intellectual artsy novel about wretchedness of society'. One of the most powerful things entertainment does is providing an escape. Especially when life gets hard, a world that is different from ours becomes appealing. That can be a world with magic and dragons or one where simply all man  our amazingly romantic lovers. Or one created by Disney for 12-year olds.  Quite often high-brow-intellectual-pretentious-person entertainment doesn't offer this escape, or does it in a more complicated way. A complicated way that you don't want to deal with after your own life has already worn you out. 

All my ramblings above do not mean that this whole phenomenon is not more complex. Many factors have a say in what kind of media and entertainment a person consumes. It also shouldn't be forgotten that high-brow-intellectual-pretentious-person entertainment can often make us feel understood, inspired or just simply happy. Good art doesn't always have to be sad. 

Also, I would like to point out that no kind of enertainment is better than the other. Despite my sometimes snobbish attitude (that I have to work on getting rid off!), entertainment is good as long as long as you find it enjoyable/inspiring/interesting/etc. Labeling something as 'great literature' and 'easy summer read' is a highly subjective matter and you shouldn't let those labels define your own experience with entertainment/art.

Conversations with old notebooks

Can I be completely honest? I've been putting writing this post off. Just like I've been procrastinating on every other creative project in my life. It's not a very good development and it's making me feel pretty un-awesome. There is one good thing that comes from my slacker attitude, though; I start doing other things to avoid writing/collaging/painting/taking pictures. For example, I spontaneously started cleaning my room yesterday. 

Looking through my overly-stuffed closet and re-organizing the pigsty that is my desk drawers meant that like a true bedroom archeologist  I dug op some objects from my past. Most of these things were either falling apart or served merely as an embarrasing reminder of my awkward past-selves, but I also found some true gems. And with gems I mean my old notebooks.

I have always loved to write and draw and tell stories in anyway possible. The notebooks from the bottom of my closet, that date all the way back to 2007, are the most honest testimony to this passion. In sloppy script and misspelled verbs I created tales about new worlds or my own. (I found an excellent account of my 6th grade compulsory swimming lessons. Hint: I did not enjoy them very much.) I almost never showed these notebooks to others, so the stories I told were meant for me and my enjoyment only. 

Enjoyment is exactly what these notebooks were all about. My clean-up plan was cut short, because I couldn't stop flipping through my old writings. The sentence structure was poor, the exclamation mark usage superfluous and the illustrations just plain awful, but they were so much fun too read. In every word the excitement of little me about writing my very own story is tangible. 

Although I was having a good time on my bedroom floor, a somewhat uncomfortable feeling crept up on me. "If I love it so much, why am I not writing right now?" my overly-active brain couldn't help but ask and that is when I realized something. The difference between me now and me with the old notebooks mostly (aside from a better knowledge of conjugations) has to do with self-conciousness. 

Lately, whenever I try to create something I can hear this little voice inside my head called perfectionism yelling: "It better be good! It better be beautiful! Do you even know what you are doing?!". Add being constantly exposed to extremely good art from others and you have me completely paralyzed with the fear of sucking. 

"But why?" would old notebook-me ask in reply. "When did creating start being about doing well or impressing others? It was all about fun, right?" And that is the moment when I realize that 9-year old me has more common sense than I do now.
She is absolutely right. Creating things is not my job, it's something those wrinkly grown-ups like to call 'a hobby'. It's supposed to be fun. For me. It does, in fact, not have to be good. (The Perfectionist shudders in horror.)

Do I want to write terrible Doctor Who fanfiction (because I think it’s fun)? “Do it!” 9 year old Sabine yells. Do I want to make a collage consisting solely of images of feet (because I think it’s fun)? “Do it!”
Do I want to make a photo series exploring the usefulness versus the aesthetics of the female body (because I think it’s fun)? “Do it!”

The stories in the notebooks I found yesterday are terrible, but they managed to make me smile even 7 years after writing them. I want all (or at least a lot of) my work to be like that, even if that means it’s not that good. Fun. Honest. Filled with the excitement to be creating. 

And now please listen to this song. Do it.