September 24: Growling, Drawing and Writing, Absent Father

Soon Ross was growling at Thurber, "How the hell did you get the idea you could draw?"

The publisher of The New Yorker, Harold Ross, did not like the cartoons of James Thurber.  In fact, he hated Thurber's drawings, as evidenced by the quote above.  Of course, in retrospect, everyone knows that Thurber became famous for his artistic talent, in particular his New Yorker cartoons.

I am my own Harold Ross.  Every time I write a blog post or write a poem or draw a Confessions of Saint Marty, I hear that Ross voice in my head hissing, "How the hell did you get the idea you could write or draw?!"  Self-doubt is my constant companion.  And, with every rejection I receive, that Ross voice gets louder and louder.

It spills over into other parts of my life, as well.  I question myself in the medical office.  I question myself as a husband.  As a father.  I tend to focus on my failings as opposed to my successes.  For instance, every night that I'm away from home, teaching or working, I go into my son's bedroom when I get home and look at him in his bed.  For two days straight, I barely see him.  On Wednesday nights, he's comatose when I leave the house and comatose when I return.  The term "absent father" comes to mind.  Staring down at his little sleeping form, I feel like a complete failure.

That's where I am tonight.  In the failure zone.

Maybe Saint Marty should drink some hot chocolate with Kahlua.  Then he can be a drunken failure.

I think Thurber can draw