I worry incessantly about my aesthetic. I’m gonna go ahead and chalk part of this up to being a taurus (because I’m a gen x and we can do that sort of thing) but I’m afraid the rest of the blame is to be weighed on my tremendously big head.
I feel as though I have so much to offer the world, and not nearly the resolve to do it.
That is, I can’t quite decide on the persona I want to project as a writer — and why it is I feel so desperately I must decide on one..
Do I want to be a modern cool-girl blogger with a knack for website design and knowing all the best indie-alt bands? If so, may her outfits be thrifted and trendy, her insta be artsy, and her body be adorned in Matisse-inspired ink.
Or how about a lust-for-life travel journalist with a passion for culture, good food, and the open road? If so, may she embrace earth tones and landscapes, look good in braids, and smile so fearlessly others can’t help but do the same.
Or perhaps I shall be the struggling poet, ever so humble and wise, dripping soulful sex appeal behind unbrushed hair and mismatched mugs of earl grey tea? If so, may her mirror selfies be fire, jeans be oversized, mattress be frameless, and pages be filled with too much white space.
I could go on, but I’m afraid an identity crisis is upon me.
I want to be them all, in some way, shape or form, but I can’t seem to allow myself to be fluid anymore than I can decide on a persona to conform to.
It is simply not enough to be a writer anymore. The culture of the digital age in which we live is much too visual.
No longer is it merely the products of our process which must be marketed - we ourselves are a brand. And we must learn how to sell it!
It is not enough for you to like my writing - you also must like me.
I struggle with this because it is completely unfair, and frankly superficial, to judge artists by anything besides their art. And yet, here I am tormented by the formulating of my fucking aesthetic.
I suppose I must dare to be them all.