To Thine Own Self
By Judith Cullen
© 2014
I came into the possession of a literary journal
recently. I took it home, excited to
turn its pages and enjoy the work of fellow scribes. That I would consider myself a peer with
people recognized as “Literary Fellows” as these were, is a major step in
confidence in itself. I may be a humble
self-published writer of fiction and essays, but I felt I deserved to belong
simply because I do consider myself a writer.
By the same token, after years of qualifying my stage design work with
the word “craftsman,” I now do regard myself as an artist.
I began to read the first essay. I stopped.
I couldn’t read it. The form was
so self-conscious that I was distracted from the words. “Maybe it is just this author” I thought and
turned the page to another story. Same
thing, another composition so wrapped in its form and its own erudition. “I’m not stupid,” I thought. But these works made me feel so, because
there was an “it” to be got, and I just didn’t.
I realized that I was waiting for someone to tell me a story, to
transport me into a world of their imagination and thoughts. Note to self: I love stories.
