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the shackles of expectation
Aug. 30th, 2025 02:29 pmThere’s a novel’s worth of material in every second of the day. This is not only the most beautiful thing about being a quote-unquote “writer” but also the most frustrating, knowing that those stories are there but not being able to capture them, the expectation that you actually even could.
Like, just earlier, I was sitting in my backyard, smoking a cigarette, and I noticed, on the ground in front of me, one of those brown digger wasps, pathetically crawling across the sand, its needly back legs splayed out behind it, wings motionless, depressed stinger drawing a death map in its wake. It was clearly dying. I was momentarily transfixed by the thought of how there's all sorts of hidden stories going on in our periphery, like within the tall grass and the sand and the canopies of all those towering trees, and I started thinking to myself, surely there was a series of secret events that placed this dying wasp right here, in front of me, on this gray Saturday morning, perhaps our crossing of paths was a sign or something, so I tried to draw some meaningful parallel, some deep poetic connection to my life, but I just couldn't think of anything. I couldn't think of anything at all.
Then my son, whose bedroom window opens out into the backyard, poked his head through the curtains, big smile on his face, and said, “Dad, Dad, what doing, what doing,” and I thought to myself, surely there’s some sort of deep parallel I could draw from the dying wasp to me sitting here smoking to my son obliviously questioning me from behind a plane of glass? But how does it all tie together? How does it relate? What is the meaning of it all? Is there some commentary here about smoking? How being a smoker is sort of like being a dying digger wasp, both hopelessly dragging ourselves across the sand, both knowing that we’re going to die yet still pulling ourselves along regardless, perhaps waiting for the perfect time and place to give up the ghost? But how does my son fit into all this? Maybe my son is actually the wasp, oblivious to the machinations of life and death, unaware of the mortal-coil shit going on with his father in the backyard? To him, Dad just likes to sit back there sometimes while holding glowy white sticks that twirl little streams of blue-gray smoke? Perhaps my son is the wasp because I am slowly killing my son by slowly killing myself?
None of the aforementioned parallels impressed me. They were actually sort of embarrassing. They all seemed too labored and dramatic, too try-hard, pretentious almost, and they barely made any sense when I started really thinking about them. So I tried to think of parallels that were a little more nuanced, a little more interesting, a little more unique, perhaps something that actually made sense, something that would be like wow this is very deep and wise and smart, but the thought of myself having these thoughts also made me feel pretentious, so I ended up pretentiousing myself right out of any meaningful insight whatsoever, meaning, once again, I couldn’t think of anything at all.
The other day, someone asked me if I thought of myself as a “writer,” but I don’t really know what that means. What actually makes someone a writer? Do you have to be published to be a writer? Or do you merely have to believe yourself to be a writer to be a writer? Do you even need to write to be a writer? I mean, yes, I do think of myself as a “writer” sometimes, but this is a sort of pretentious label that I have given myself, like labeling yourself a goth in high school and then going through all the motions of portraying yourself as such, like wearing the tripp pants and the studded belts and the eyeliner and affecting this sort of detached melancholy attitude and of course scowling at every polo shirt that happens to walk by, all to meet this self-imposed label of “goth.”
What I’m trying to say is, labels create expectations, not only from others but also from yourself.
And, if I’m being honest, I don’t like having all these expectations, because they fuck me up mentally. But at this point I can’t really help it, having all these expectations, because this label, this idea of “being a writer,” has rooted itself so deeply in my psyche that I’m constantly thinking about writing and others perceiving me as a writer and how everything that happens around me, like the wasp for example, can be warped into some sort of deeply meaningful writing prompt, all driven by these expectations I have unwittingly given myself by believing myself to be a quote-unquote “writer.” And when I can’t come up with anything that meets my own self-imposed expectations, I become frustrated and discouraged, like I am now, this whole rambling journal entry being something I am not particularly proud of, writing-wise, as I think it’s kind of vacuous and forced and stupid, and I’m actually considering just deleting the whole thing, because, when I write poorly like this, I am very aware of it and I start to think myself a bad writer, which makes me want to stop writing forever, meaning I get into these little writing funks that I suppose could be called something like “writer’s block,” but it’s deeper than that, I think, it’s more like a self-inflicted cycle of disappointment, “writer’s curse” more like, a sort of deep frustration with myself because I can’t meet the expectations I have placed on myself by even thinking that I am a “writer” to begin with.
So, to answer the question, do I think myself a writer? I guess so, but I would much rather just think of myself as myself, nothing more, nothing less, because at least then I would be free from the shackles of expectation.
Like, just earlier, I was sitting in my backyard, smoking a cigarette, and I noticed, on the ground in front of me, one of those brown digger wasps, pathetically crawling across the sand, its needly back legs splayed out behind it, wings motionless, depressed stinger drawing a death map in its wake. It was clearly dying. I was momentarily transfixed by the thought of how there's all sorts of hidden stories going on in our periphery, like within the tall grass and the sand and the canopies of all those towering trees, and I started thinking to myself, surely there was a series of secret events that placed this dying wasp right here, in front of me, on this gray Saturday morning, perhaps our crossing of paths was a sign or something, so I tried to draw some meaningful parallel, some deep poetic connection to my life, but I just couldn't think of anything. I couldn't think of anything at all.
Then my son, whose bedroom window opens out into the backyard, poked his head through the curtains, big smile on his face, and said, “Dad, Dad, what doing, what doing,” and I thought to myself, surely there’s some sort of deep parallel I could draw from the dying wasp to me sitting here smoking to my son obliviously questioning me from behind a plane of glass? But how does it all tie together? How does it relate? What is the meaning of it all? Is there some commentary here about smoking? How being a smoker is sort of like being a dying digger wasp, both hopelessly dragging ourselves across the sand, both knowing that we’re going to die yet still pulling ourselves along regardless, perhaps waiting for the perfect time and place to give up the ghost? But how does my son fit into all this? Maybe my son is actually the wasp, oblivious to the machinations of life and death, unaware of the mortal-coil shit going on with his father in the backyard? To him, Dad just likes to sit back there sometimes while holding glowy white sticks that twirl little streams of blue-gray smoke? Perhaps my son is the wasp because I am slowly killing my son by slowly killing myself?
None of the aforementioned parallels impressed me. They were actually sort of embarrassing. They all seemed too labored and dramatic, too try-hard, pretentious almost, and they barely made any sense when I started really thinking about them. So I tried to think of parallels that were a little more nuanced, a little more interesting, a little more unique, perhaps something that actually made sense, something that would be like wow this is very deep and wise and smart, but the thought of myself having these thoughts also made me feel pretentious, so I ended up pretentiousing myself right out of any meaningful insight whatsoever, meaning, once again, I couldn’t think of anything at all.
The other day, someone asked me if I thought of myself as a “writer,” but I don’t really know what that means. What actually makes someone a writer? Do you have to be published to be a writer? Or do you merely have to believe yourself to be a writer to be a writer? Do you even need to write to be a writer? I mean, yes, I do think of myself as a “writer” sometimes, but this is a sort of pretentious label that I have given myself, like labeling yourself a goth in high school and then going through all the motions of portraying yourself as such, like wearing the tripp pants and the studded belts and the eyeliner and affecting this sort of detached melancholy attitude and of course scowling at every polo shirt that happens to walk by, all to meet this self-imposed label of “goth.”
What I’m trying to say is, labels create expectations, not only from others but also from yourself.
And, if I’m being honest, I don’t like having all these expectations, because they fuck me up mentally. But at this point I can’t really help it, having all these expectations, because this label, this idea of “being a writer,” has rooted itself so deeply in my psyche that I’m constantly thinking about writing and others perceiving me as a writer and how everything that happens around me, like the wasp for example, can be warped into some sort of deeply meaningful writing prompt, all driven by these expectations I have unwittingly given myself by believing myself to be a quote-unquote “writer.” And when I can’t come up with anything that meets my own self-imposed expectations, I become frustrated and discouraged, like I am now, this whole rambling journal entry being something I am not particularly proud of, writing-wise, as I think it’s kind of vacuous and forced and stupid, and I’m actually considering just deleting the whole thing, because, when I write poorly like this, I am very aware of it and I start to think myself a bad writer, which makes me want to stop writing forever, meaning I get into these little writing funks that I suppose could be called something like “writer’s block,” but it’s deeper than that, I think, it’s more like a self-inflicted cycle of disappointment, “writer’s curse” more like, a sort of deep frustration with myself because I can’t meet the expectations I have placed on myself by even thinking that I am a “writer” to begin with.
So, to answer the question, do I think myself a writer? I guess so, but I would much rather just think of myself as myself, nothing more, nothing less, because at least then I would be free from the shackles of expectation.
