Good But Not Quite Good Enough. Wah.

Now I try to be upbeat and funny, and most of the time I succeed. Then I have these blue times where I’m all depressed and I watch Food Network and eat ice cream and lament that all I wear is yoga pants. This is one of those times, except I’m eating cookies and it’s too hot to wear yoga pants, so I’m just schlepping around in my underwear and a tank top.


Why am I blue? I was up for a job as an Assistant Professor. Made it all the way to the final interviews, but didn’t get it. It’s a tough market. I didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing I could have done differently or better. Part of that is comforting, but another part just sucks, because what that means is that for some reason someone else was just BETTER. I sorta feel like I’m always second in things.

You hear about overnight successes and A list Hollywood stars. About writers who sell millions of copies through self-publishing. Of narrators who win Audies and accolades. Then there’s the rest of them--all those other people who don't make it, but are trying. I’m in that group. I write well, but not good enough for a big contract with a national publisher, and my self-published stuff probably won't sell more than 100. I’m a decent narrator, but not quite good enough for the A list titles or reviews. I’m a good professor, but not quite good enough for a full-time position.

I know I sound like I’m whining, and I am. Admittedly, I whine A LOT. But sometimes being ‘good but not quite good enough’ gets damned exhausting. When you really try at something, when you give it your all, and it’s still not quite enough, that’s when it hurts the most, I think. And that’s when the Ice Cream Siren calls. Or Cookies. Or Indian Takeout. I’ve never had Lentils call. NEVER.


I’ll get over it. I’m almost over it now.

I’ll just keep plugging along. I do realize that I’m lucky I get to narrate and write and teach at all. I really do. I’m just a little tired. A little discouraged.

A friend of mine wrote on my FB wall “It’s nothing a little Paris won’t fix”. She’s right. A month from now, Kealoha and I will be in Paris and I’ll be too distracted to be blue.

I should stop whining and learn that one phrase of French that I’m certain will save me from Parisian disdain: “I’m a stupid American and don’t speak French. Please help me and laugh at me later.”

That should lift my spirits for a while. That and this here oatmeal and coconut cookie.