Because “Sore Thumb” was taken. But also for these reasons.
If you’re one of the two people who read this when it was called “Sad Jokes,” first of all thanks. Second, you’ll see it’s not called that anymore. I sat on Sad Jokes for almost a year before posting anything. When I decided to try it out recently, it turned out that it didn’t really feel right. It wasn’t the good fit I wanted it to be. None of my ideas for posts felt in sync with the name, and the ones that did wound up feeling forced. So I scrapped ‘em and decided to start again.
I wasn’t sure what that would look like until I went to a mini-writing workshop earlier this week on a whim. I was having a challenging week at the day job, so when I saw that a few spots were open for this event at a truly gorgeous and magical cozy location in town I snagged one. I wasn’t going for the writing, to be honest. That’s what I do for work, and doing it after hours has never really been appealing. I just needed a change of scenery. A place to rest my brain, have a nice dinner, and maybe pop into a hot tub for a bit. If I also happened to reconnect with “my craft” as it were, well, that would be a bonus.
That didn’t happen.
At least, not in the way I imagined it might.
What happened instead was this.
Throughout the evening, as the seven or eight other women made small talk, I started feeling extremely out of place. They were so confident, and stylish, and unguarded. When it was time to share our work from the evening’s writing exercises they read confidently and offered fingersnaps of approval for everyone. They called the hummus on the table “a special gift,” and meant it.
All pretty routine stuff as far as writers’ workshops go.
When it was my turn to read, I felt nervous and unsteady. Like I did the assignment wrong. Like it just wasn’t what was expected.
And, I mean, it wasn’t. That I was mostly fine with. What I was wrestling with over the past few days was the specific and familiar feeling of knowing this was not where I fit. These women who are kind, and brave, and smart, and welcoming were amazing, but the vibe still felt…off.
I still felt like I stood out like a sore thumb, and the more I tried to compensate and close the gap between me and women who earnestly wax poetic about snack dips, the worse it felt. Should I say that the cheese plate is an honor to experience? I was floundering.
Last night while replaying the workshop experience in my head again for the millionth time, I landed on an extremely obvious truth: not fitting in is fine. It’s freeing, like shapeshifting, and the more I lean into my me-ness, the more confident and creative I can become. Unfettered by a need to close that uncloseable gap, I can walk into that room next time without worrying if I’m going to be the weirdo in the room. I’ve learned the odds of that are generally pretty good.
So this blog/newsletter/whatever is about embracing all that. It’s for poking around in my weirdness as best I can, in words and art, and who knows what else, and having a little fun in there.
’Till next time
— Bex
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