More On Insecurity
Sometimes, people* tell me that they like “the way” I write. (*By which I mean that I receive comments from Internet people who could very well be the Roomie validating my existence.) I know these remarks are meant as compliments but I rarely receive them as such and instead, I think, “You mean that my crippling self-doubt is on full display and it appears almost poetic at the top of your Google Reader?” This might be because I most commonly hear this compliment on posts in which I have taken special care to be as self-deprecating as possible while stopping short of suicide jokes. (I have learned through trial-and-error that rants about the futility of it all will only tip off your Resident Dean, who is then contractually obligated to have an uncomfortable conversation with you. So I refrain.)
It’s not that I don’t believe in my self-worth; it’s that I’m certain I am a more appealing writer when I do not believe in my self-worth. When I first started writing Sex and the Ivy, one of my most popular posts was entitled “A History of Depression”. In fact, most of my popular posts were about bedroom mishaps, emotional/eating issues, and disdain for Harvard. In other words, I became famous on the Internet for making other people feel better about their lives.
