I Think I'm Pretty Interesting

Intro to the substack

I came up with the title for this substack one day when I was walking in the cemetery with my friend Pete. We were having an enthralling conversation about different therapy modalities and feeling caught between doing “enough” or “not enough” with our clients (we are both therapists in private practice). I began to wish that our conversation had been a podcast episode that I could listen back to. The title of my fantasy podcast would be, “I Think We’re Pretty Interesting.” and I would bring on a friend-guest every week to talk about whatever we feel like, assuming it would no doubt be as interesting to our listeners as it was to us. But really, do I want to drag my friends into this? Maybe a combination of something to do with my astrological chart and the essential delusion of grandeur that artists must possess has led me to the conclusion that I Think I’m Pretty Interesting, at least to myself. 

Social media and the internet as a whole has created an existential crisis situation for me as someone who always assumed I'd create and share art, writing, music publicly and, perhaps, do something “interesting” and “important.” In some ways, it feels like now, the chaos of the world around us and the way we consume it, has led to equally chaotic randomness in what becomes “important” in the ~*cultural zeitgeist*~. As a kid who was obsessed with Michael Jackson, songwriting, singing, and piano, I assumed wholeheartedly that I would grow up to be a famous musician (a delusion I carried with me until college, when weed became the Most Important Thing for me). I watched “Behind the Music” VH1 documentaries about various stars’ rise to fame and I studied this trajectory as if the world I entered later on would still be the same. I lamented that I hadn’t grown up “singing in the church” as many pop divas seemed to, but I figured I could get around that just by having grown up in NYC. I could maybe skip the part where I’d have to travel to NYC for the weekend from Missouri, or wherever, to audition for Star Search or American Idol. The truth is, though, even when the world became a place where you could rise to stardom using not much more than a viral YouTube video as the catalyst, I found any excuse not to share myself with the world. 

In middle school, before my sense of self-cringe developed, I performed every month or so, singer-songwriter style, at a bar in Red Hook, just me and my keyboard alternating between original songs and covers of Fiona Apple and Alicia Keys. Why a dive bar in Red Hook allowed minors to perform on weekend days, I’m not sure, but I was grateful for this. I received glowing feedback from adults, who said I was an “old soul” (read: neurodivergent and depressed). When I started to realize that I could potentially embarrass myself and developed anxiety (which began as middle-of-the-night panic attacks about the universe’s size in 10th grade), it became scarier to perform. I wouldn’t be able to tune my guitar effectively between songs, I would forget my lyrics,  and I couldn’t seem to fit in with my peers who were performing in bands with perhaps more palatable music styles. At one particular show, I was heckled by some smug kids as I struggled to focus on my solo Bikini Kill cover (picture me: blond mohawk, partially grown out, skin tight leopard pants from Trash & Vaudeville in St. Marks place, a red tank top and green patent leather flats playing my lefty Fender strat). I never performed again. At least not in that raw way where I really trusted myself that I had something to share with the world that was Interesting and Important. 

I know now that I absolutely do not wish to be a musician in any professional capacity, and especially not a famous one (if this were a grantable wish). I hate crowds, I need earplugs to even tolerate a loud restaurant, traveling gives me anxiety, and though I will always love music and occasionally have a burst of songwriting inspiration, creative music is not what drives me. My oldest friend Deborah told me on the phone the other day, that had I been famous, I most definitely would have been canceled. When I laughingly inquired for the reason, she said that I have a tendency to say whatever I think and then occasionally have to apologize. Hey, maybe Deborah thinks I’m interesting. 

My current and most long standing dream has revolved around writing and storytelling (my brief foray into oil painting and the delusion that I could make it in the Art World is a story for another day). I have been an avid journaler since 6th grade. I have rarely missed more than a few days of writing since then. I have taken several of Donna Minkowitz’s memoir writing workshops and felt very serious about publication and the potential of my writing. The purpose of this substack, however, is to move beyond the possibilities of my work into actually creating the work. I tend to shut myself down before I even get started. I mourn a novel I could have written as I’m reading a brilliant novel someone else wrote without having even written a word myself. I endlessly scroll through the Instagram of some friend of a friend from high school at 2am, marveling at the creative life they have cultivated and vowing to myself to begin to live this way myself…tomorrow. 

The most resounding refrain of my inner critic is: “Who cares…? Why does your perspective matter? Your experiences are not unique, and neither are you!” Deep down, though, I do think I’m pretty interesting, which is vulnerable to admit and opens me up to my worst fear of everyone consuming my work and saying, “eh, actually you’re not.” My hope is that this can be a place to start sharing thoughts, short stories, and juicy old journal entries without so much analysis of the worth or value of sharing.