Cool Story, Bro

Humility is acceptable, right? It’s not so odd to stare at the ground–or my big-tongued Adidas sneakers, black or burgundy, depending on the mood–and take the compliments in stride, as in silence, instead of feeling full of myself? Am I asking a larger social question here? What am I asking? Should I switch to declarative statements, instead?

Okay.

I’m trying not to turn my column into the musings of a newborn literary magazine editor, though that is my life these days. Not so much writing, however. My therapist asked me why. I said I don’t know who I am anymore–which is to say, I’m no longer depressed and, as a result, I’m no longer driven by the feeling that writing, cathartically speaking, will help parry madness.

The words come easy–easier, maybe–because the murk is gone, but I’m in search of topics. The few scraps I do jot down raid my childhood memories, a writerly habit long overdue. Beyond that, what I have is my literary magazine, my role in it. Don’t ask me for its name; seek it out, if you want. This is PANK; I want to be PANKish here instead of skanky, a suitable word for someone promoting his mag on another mag without permission.

I’m no skank. I am, however, a fan of the word.

In this, my chemically-regenerated life, I’m quietly teaching myself humility. Re-learning it, maybe. Or, perhaps, attempting to slot it back into my life, figuring out where it fits, what it means. Humility before the anti-depressants was mere ownership of a situation I couldn’t change, akin to an unattractive man calling himself celibate.

I didn’t choose to be humble; it was a requisite for survival, since I wanted to avoid eye contact. Eyes say everything, more so than words and on par with kisses, and I had to parse my meager ability for intimacy carefully–as in, I saved it for my wife. My beautiful wife. My literary magazine partner. My genius.

But as I said, I’m no longer depressed. I no longer default to humility and I’m scared. I stand in line for a pack of cigarettes, keenly aware of my increased smoking rate (not out of nervousness, but because I enjoy the slight high), and the cashier looks me in the eyes. I stare back. She smiles. I smirk because she’s not attractive to me, but I’m attractive to her and being attractive to anyone always triggers a smirk, even a socially awkward one. She says hi and I say hi and I feel the looseness in my limbs, the ease of being self-assured (?). I do nothing else but pay for my cigarettes and bop, not walk, out of the store. This is life, I think to myself. Cool.

What is life as a literary magazine editor? Odd.

I’m never one to question a person’s motives; if you can believe it, this approach isn’t rife with pitfalls, since people’s true selves always come out–no sense digging into flesh and sentences only to find a vault’s door set to a timer. Anyway, I receive more and more compliments for my work. And I say thank you.

I pause and think You could say more. You could expound on your overall artistic goal–undefined as it is, but I could fake it. I could also be a clown or a chest-thumping gorilla: be the writer who attracts guffaws for outlandish one-liners; tower over other writers, look down on them.

In the last few days, I’ve tried both permutations. They feel awkward. Inauthentic. I’d rather be humble (re: boring) than inauthentic. When called out on it, all I could say was My man, you’re right.

What that means for me tomorrow, I’m not so sure. Tomorrow is what it is, so I’ve heard, and today ain’t over. I’m no longer depressed; I no longer default to humility; all I have is authenticity: as pure and hopeful as the blank page.