I didn't make it to your inbox last week because I'd just gotten home from a long drive back from the east coast, where I'd spent the week visiting family and friends. Also, it was my birthday!
I turned 35, ate delicious meals cooked by my husband, and nursed a cold. I also reevaluated my life and second guessed every career decision, as one does when they turn 35, before deciding: Stop, Delaney.
I had a realization that I would never be some “up and coming artist.” It startled me at first, because what a weird thought to have. But then a wave of relief washed over me. I don’t need that kind of pressure! I just want to make my little drawings and think about things. I want to tend to my garden. I want to visit my family. I want to laugh with friends. I have so, so much to be grateful for.
I’ve been sitting on this post for a while. I was building up the courage waiting for the right time actually I can’t pinpoint the reason for my hesitation. I think there are multiple.
Then this week, the wonderful writer
published an essay on her Substack called “In Defense of Airing Dirty Laundry,” recounting the positives she has witnessed as a result of “revealing the tender, messy parts of ourselves.”“…the power of sharing our stories, of pulling back our ribs to reveal the soft, tender parts of ourselves we believe make us unlovable. The parts of ourselves we’re most ashamed to share are often the parts that shed light on our humanity…”
I highly suggest giving it a read.
Her essay was the bolster I needed to get back to this draft.
Since “airing dirty laundry” has a negative stigma, I suggested to Danielle that we collectively shift to referring to it as “showing our bloomers.” I love that it implies a personal choice – as though I am choosing to proudly attach my undies to a stick and walk around waving my little DIY freak flag. No fear! No shame! These are my bloomers!
Growing up, I wanted to be a writer.
My childhood bedroom was full of journals and notebooks bursting with imagined stories.
But I knew it couldn't happen. In my adolescent mind, being an author (or being publicly known in any capacity) meant that someone somewhere would inevitably dig up dirt on me.
Here's the thing: I had a big family secret that I was certain could never, ever, ever come out.
What if someone found out and let the cat out of the bag? My family would be ruined all because of me and my stupid dream. So no, it didn't matter how much I loved to write stories. I couldn't do that to my mom and brother. I'd make sure to stay hidden.
Enter, art. Artists are allowed to be weird and introverted. Their dirt is rarely dug up because everyone assumes it's already on the sketchbook page or canvas or whatever. So I followed my passion for storytelling to art school and a career in design.
As fate would have it, the dirt eventually found its way into the light without my help at all. In fact, I had no say in the matter. (Why are we always relegated to the sidelines when big decisions are made re: our own lives?!)
The world didn't end, as I'd always thought it might. But it was an adjustment – suddenly having this giant secret be something of common knowledge to complete strangers. Who knew? Who didn't know? How much did they know? Are they judging my mom? I'll kill them.
...and other such anxieties.
Our family secret has been out for something like 13 years now. I can do as I please without fearing what a nosy journalist might find in my closet. But the skeletons remain a burden because those childhood memories are still hushed. Like a phantom limb, I still feel their pain.
I know that by sharing, we lessen the load we have to carry.
Now, I also remember really wanting to be a truck driver for some time. These days my husband and I regularly go on long cross country road trips next to countless trucks, which is basically the same thing. That's one childhood dream accomplished!
Let's go for one more...
I’ve set a goal for myself this year to finally finish writing the memoir I’ve been trying to write for the past few years.
Here’s a small slice, in sketchy mini-comic form.
Sounds to me that life is going as it should and I see in you how I was 45 years ago. I have a story about going home using one of your wonderful drawings ( with your permission of course). Consider creating your own A5 stapled booklets as I do for my paperbag stories. Regards.🐰
Obsessed with you and everything you do. Cannot wait to read your memoir!