I Authentically Still Love Pop-Tarts and Donuts, and Some Thoughts on Writing

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My friend sometimes talks about authenticity, and her use of this word got me thinking about my own authenticity and what it really means.  You know that thing that happens though, when you think about a word until it doesn’t mean anything anymore, until you think, maybe I don’t really know what that word means at all?  When I am thinking about something like this, I do what every educated American does, I go to Wikipedia.   A common definition of “Authenticity” in psychology refers to the attempt to live one’s life according to the needs of one’s inner being, rather than the demands of society or one’s early conditioning.   

Then I look for quotes: 

“What we’re all striving for is authenticity, a spirit-to-spirit connection.”   Oprah 

Of course I found Oprah. When I hear “spirit-to-spirit” I think of ghosts getting jiggy, but maybe that’s just me.  

Then I get Oprah’s son, Dr. Phil:  “Are you living a life that is more in tune with your “authentic” self (who you were created to be) or your “fictional” self (who the world has told you to be)?  Isn’t he just like a shrink, always asking unanswerable questions. 

Here’s one from someone I wouldn’t expect:  “Even the fear of death is nothing compared to the fear of not having lived authentically and fully.” Francis Moore Lappe 

That’s the Diet For a Small Planet lady.  She is better than my mom when it comes to guilt, after I read her book I felt so bad about all the grains the cows were eating that I became a vegetarian for two years.  Then I quit vegetarianism because bacon is good; tempeh and tofu, not so much.  Any food that takes on the flavor of other food around it and has to be disguised in order to be eaten is not right. It’s like poseur spy food. I don’t like it. 

My Bloglines offered greater clarity on authenticity, in the form of a blog written by a self-proclaimed “very nice” literary agent.  Agents seem to have a complex about their niceness, it must be hard to reject people all day long.  Having never submitted a query letter to an agent, I am not yet bitter about this sort of thing.  The blog is called PubRants, and the post was written by a guest blogger, Kristine Riggle, author of the novel Real Life and Liars.  Riggle’s words match my definition of authenticity as it pertains to writing (look at me, sticking to one theme in this post! It really is me, I don’t have a guest blogger.) 

Here’s what she says: 

“Write the story that grips you and won’t let go. I didn’t think about the market when I wrote REAL LIFE & LIARS. I’d been writing something else that was supposed to sell, and I was hating it. So I finally decided to instead write exactly the kind of book I like to read, so at least I would have fun, even if no one wanted to publish it. ”

I have decided to write the kind of book I want to read, not the one that I think will sell or that agents and publishers will like. So my novel that starts out with a hiker who steps on the hand of a dead body while hiking over lava beds in New Mexico and subsequently becomes a mystery novel, is, at least for now, not something I want to write.  I’m not Janet Evanovich.  She does that really well, that whole funny novel about the amateur trying to catch the bad guys thing.  But there is only one Janet (can I call you Janet, Janet?), and there can be no duplicating of that style, as much as the writer’s group may have encouraged me to do it.  I don’t want to be compared to other writers like that, it’s too much pressure.  Unless you want to compare me to David Sedaris, that would be okay with me.

That other novel I’ve been working on, the one with the boy who dies, I think I am putting that one away for now, too.  I feel really guilty about what I did to that boy; I mean, I didn’t have to make him fall off the second floor of that building and crack his skull.  His poor fictional mother, what have I done to her?  She just wanted to hang out in 1985 watching Phil Donahue and dressing her little 5-year old daughter in knickers and matching knee socks, and here I went and killed her fictional 12-year old son and wrecked her life.  All because he was different than the other kids, and because I hate the way kids can be so mean for no reason at all.  I wanted to explore what happens when a bully goes too far, when a kid fight ends in a death, but then I thought about The Outsiders, and how S.E. Hinton already wrote that story so well.  

I’m a nice person, I don’t want to fictionally kill people. I don’t even like reading that kind of book, the ones where people get killed.  I am tolerating The Lovely Bones because the death seems kind of unreal, but I’m not really loving it.  I think I get too attached to these characters.  Like when Johhny Nolan dies, I cry right along with Francie and Neely every time I read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  And why did Melly have to die in Gone With the Wind, when everyone knows we’d all like that selfish little Scarlet O’hara to kick the big bucket and get buried under the porch at Tara.  I feel like a murderer, and the 12-year old boy character is based on someone I grew up with, so I am going to feel really terrible when I see him at the reunion next week.  Every time I see him post something on facebook I feel like a miracle has occurred.  Someone brought him back from his 6^th grade death!  And how is there a picture of him in the high school yearbook when he died at age 12?  See, I’m really not cut out for writing murder. 

I’ve been doing what the writer’s group wanted, which isn’t very authentic, is it?  They want to know things like, “What’s the novel going to be called?”  And “who is going to solve this murder?  Your main character should do it!  She should become a detective!  She’s like Stephanie Plum, you could have her figure it out!”  Blach – all these voices stepping on my own inner voice.  It’s a problem. 

Here’s what I do best when it comes to writing:  funny stories, essays and blog posts about my life, my family, work, and weird things that happen to me, like cultish gym memberships and exploding tires.  So I think I’ll put my energy back into that. Rest in peace novel about a dead boy. I just don’t have the strength to investigate the crime right now.  Maybe later. 

Here’s another note on authenticity: my authentic self really does not feel like flushing someone else’s poo poo that I have walked in on in the work bathroom stall.  I really, truly and authentically want to walk out and pretend I never saw it.  And even if I do the right thing, and flush it with just the toe of my shoe, and cower in the corner for fear of airborne poopy cooties, my inner self is too grossed out to be congratulating us (all the selves) on doing the right thing, even if I saved someone else from viewing the OPP (other people’s poo).  I guess this whole striving for authenticity is a lifelong process, and maybe someday I will get beyond the ick factor. Or heck, maybe I will get old and pissy and slink to passive aggressive poems posted to the stall door. A little poo haiku maybe. 

 Last thing on authenticity:  my inner, authentic being needs Pop-tarts, and I am tired of shirking the desires of my inner being.  But my authentic self also wants to shrink away upper butt fat, so you see how my authenticity is a real inner conflict.  

I am going to the reunion, but right now I am in the Who are these people? phase.  No offense guys, but I am looking you all up in the yearbooks, trying to remember you.  And I am not going to drop any weight for the shindig.  This morning I really wanted those powdered donut gems from the minute mart, but I didn’t get them because I didn’t want to be the reunion fatty, but now that I am all in touch with my authentic self, I know that I need donuts and Pop-tarts authentically.  So I will be the same “kind of thick” self I was back in the day.  My hope is that nobody is depriving themselves of food on my account.  Eat the Oreos, I say.  Enjoy your life.  Get super duper authentic.  Leave it to me to use authenticity as an excuse to eat donuts.

 After re-reading this post, I have stopped congratulating myself on sticking to one topic.

 Check this out, lots of fun.

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Filed under Pop-tarts, fun stuff, writing