My Life Falls Short

If I wrote an autobiography no one would want to read it. It wouldn’t be inspiring, because it is not the story of success. Ok,sure,I have a lot to be grateful for. I have it good, People on the outside would say so, possibly even chide me for suggesting otherwise. I’ve been lucky, and I also deserve some credit. People love me and I love them (maybe I don’t love myself enough). There are successes, by any objective standard, but my life falls short of some key things that I have always wanted. That would be the title of my story, “My life falls short.” I guess, whose life doesn’t? It would be a realistic story, one that people could probably relate to, but what would they learn from it? Why would they want their own negative narrative reinforced by mine? That is a story they know already, and if they don’t, they will think I am pathetic and want me to get off my fat ass and do something. Truth told, I have no idea whether people can learn from my experience. But bottom line, my life is marked by inaction and indecision and that can’t possibly be as interesting as the lives of people who tried things, even if they failed. In fact, a person can try things, motivate herself to be courageous, despite the fear of failure, particularly if she wants to be a writer, like I do, if for nothing else, for the story. But I do not face things and never have, and I don’t get a story or learn from mistakes. I have never faced anything my entire life. I have not faced much. I occasionally displayed the courage to face something.

So, today I am really feeling like I wish I was different. That’s not new, but some days are worse than others. Is that what draws one to the arts, acting, music, writing, photography, comedy, art? The sense that we wish we were different, that we don’t think we belong, that people don’t understand us, or expect something that we are not? Is the artistic drive born out of a quest to feel happy with who you are, when you’re not? And does it help you get there? I want that. I know it sounds weird, that’s why I don’t like to talk about it. It’s hard to say out loud, it’s hard to know how other people will react. Will they understand? These are the kinds of things I want to explore. I want to have an understanding of the human condition, or at least my human condition. I want to know myself, and I don’t want to hide from everyone. But I’m not sure that I can even understand me.

If I were to write an autobiography, would I simply tell stories, if I even have any, if I can even remember, of things that happened to me? Or will I tell about how I felt about things. It has to be how I felt about things. And it, of course, needs to be honest. Why can’t I just be honest? Judge me if you will. Ex communicate me from your life if you will. And then I can write about how that makes me feel also. It hurts too much, or at least I’m afraid it will.

You know how you’re more likely to admit something if it’s funny? Comedians admit lots of shit about themselves, and no one judges them because they’re funny.

Well that’s for the sake of the joke, because the joke is all that is holy. It’s like when Steve Martin said he couldn’t be a woman because he would just play with his breasts all day, or Ron White said that if you found a lifesize doll of a woman in his closet, you’d assume he was fucking it, and you’d be right.

But even if it weren’t funny, I feel like it would also be easier to admit something if you wrote well about it. It could be moving. The problem is, you have to take a chance, cause you don’t know what will move people. You could totally bomb, and then you’re just out there, all alone.

Honesty moves people. It interests people, or at least I think it would. Maybe it depends on what you have to be honest about.