Various Thoughts on Self-Esteem... Ish

So I'm reading this book.


Yeah, I'm sure you're all shocked. "What? She's reading a book? No way! She never does that!"


But that's enough sarcasm for now.


Anyway, this book was published in 1938, but in some small ways it's a bit similar to modern young adult fiction. Not in the significant ways, mind; it's well written and engaging, and the plot, despite being minimal at the point where I am, shows signs of becoming gripping before the end. No, the ways in which it's reminding me of series like The Hunger Games, Divergent, and especially Twilight (unfortunately) are all character-related.


The basic setup of the book is this: a young, plain-looking female first-person narrator not overburdened with personality, self-possession, or critical thinking skills falls in love with a brooding, lonely man twice her age. The man is brooding and lonely because his beautiful, clever, resourceful, popular wife tragically died some time before. Luckily for our boring narrator, the brooding lonely man returns her love (I guess; he has yet to actually confirm that) and marries her. Alas, because she is plain and unconfident and a bit slow and consequently positively overrun with self-esteem issues, she can't help constantly comparing herself to her husband's first wife and thinking that her husband can't possibly really love her and must've married her just because he needed companionship in his depressing widowhood.


One day, she shares these concerns with a reserved and polite gentleman she's become friends with. Apparently very upset, he attempts to encourage her by saying, "I should say that kindliness, and sincerity, and if I may say so - modesty - are worth far more to a man, to a husband, than all the wit and beauty in the world." (She of course thinks he's just being nice and completely dismisses this, because, as we all know, neuroses are more fun than contentment and self-confidence.)


Alright: I'm beginning to suspect that there Mr. Sadface's perfect first wife wasn't all that perfect and that maybe her tragic and unexpected death wasn't quite as tragic and unexpected as it seemed, and that this line is meant to be one of the first hints at some sort of shocking big reveal. As far as I know, it's not meant to reassure self-critical female readers that you don't need beauty and wit to be loved or anything of that sort, it's meant to build suspense. There's no reason to overthink it or write a lengthy blogpost inspired by it.


But...


It got me thinking and now I need to vent.


So... yeah. The rest of the post will be me totally overthinking this single line of dialogue.


Ahem.


As I said, this particular theme of unremarkable-girl-with-low-opinion-of-herself-gets-inexplicably-fallen-in-love-with-by-glorious-male-and-feels-unworthy feels familiar. It's becoming increasingly popular in modern YA fiction, I think. I even mentioned it in one of my Divergent commentary posts last summer. And, as this book and others I've read from roughly same time period show, it's not a new thing. It seems like female authors think that in order to appeal to the demographic they're writing for, providing them with relatable heroines, they have to write these characters who are dull and not traditionally attractive who wish they were more beautiful and interesting. And then, in order to please the demographic, these characters are given love interests who are far more attractive, mature, and intelligent, and who are apparently attracted to their heroines' sweet, innocent, clueless naïveté and simply adorable "modesty" (read: self-loathing).


Does anybody else find that creepy? Look, I can handle romances like those between Emma and Mr. Knightley or Jo March and Professor Bhaer, where despite their age difference the characters are intellectual equals with similar emotional maturity. But in the book I'm reading now, the narrator's husband has repeatedly called her a child or talked about how silly she is. That bothers me. It's weird and I don't like it. Like - do men actually fall in love with girls who are not their equals in any way? I'm not talking about marrying or dating someone for the purpose of gaining an admirer who will do and believe anything you tell them. I'm talking about love. Real, true, romantic love of someone who is less intelligent, less mature, less wise, less everything than you. Is that realistic?


But that's not the only problem I have with this theme. The other is, of course, that not everybody experiences self-doubt because of the same perceived flaws.


I've talked before about how unsure and self-conscious I get about my writing. And that's not the only thing I fret about. Sometimes I feel like I talk too loud and say too much and try too hard and show off and essentially drive everyone around me crazy. On bad days, I tell myself that, yeah, I have really good friends who truly enjoy hanging out with me, and family members who really do love me - but surely the people who sit next to me and talk to me at school are only being nice and would much rather be somewhere else, and surely even my friends and family get tired of me sometimes, and surely... well, you get the idea.


But see, for all my self-confidence issues, there are things I like about myself. My hair, for one thing, which, as just about anyone will tell you, is simply glorious. It's long and thick and wavy and dark, auburn-y red and it brings in all kinds of compliments. And my fast, sarcastic, quippy humor. Maybe my voice occasionally gets louder than I like it, and maybe sometimes I take a joke too far, but I make people laugh.


*Glances back at the quote from the book* Ummm...


Let's take a slight detour to examine a hypothetical. Imagine a youngish female. She's not stunningly beautiful, but she's pretty enough and generally quite content with her looks. She's also stylish, clever, witty, etc. She knows she's not particularly kind, and she very rarely takes things seriously, and she's not always modest, but... she's happy.


In time, she meets a youngish non-female. His mind operates rather similarly to hers, and so she finds him very easy to talk to. They have long discussions about all sorts of things, laughing at each other's jokes and finishing each other's sentences and altogether getting along swimmingly, and before long the girl's developed quite the crush.


The only problem? It turns out that the affections of the object of her affections already have an object, in the form of a fairly plain-looking, unremarkably dressed, not exactly clever girl who is nonetheless universally kind and caring, unerringly sincere, and endlessly modest.


If the first female were to read this book and stumble across this line, only imagine how it might exacerbate her insecurities, especially if my growing suspicions are correct and it turns out the book's incomparable first wife wasn't all she seemed. 'Tis a fine message to be sending, I suppose... it's better to be affectionate than amusing... it's better to be shy than stunning... better an excess of self-hatred than a surplus of self-love.    


*Sigh* I hardly know what I'm saying anymore. I guess... I guess I wish this wasn't what was popular. I so desperately want to like this book, because it's creepy, and well-written, and it comes highly recommended. But... I'm just having trouble relating to the heroine, and I think I'm tired of encountering heroines I can't relate to. Don't get me wrong, I've read books with heroines who are so relatable they may as well have been based on me. They're just not the runaway bestsellers.


And, as I sort of indicated in a vaguish way, I'm not entirely sure this kind of thing is healthy. I'm not saying that things like kindness, sincerity, and modesty aren't good traits that should be encouraged. I'd never say that. But I'm tired of books and movies in which clever, confident female characters are also self-absorbed or manipulative or unfeeling or oblivious or simply overlooked. I've even read a book by George freakin' Eliot of all people in which the intelligent, worldly, well-developed main character has her pride broken in the most painful way possible and is then unceremoniously rejected by the loser she's falling in love with in favor of some sugar-sweet nonentity of a girl whose whole personality is summed up in a shy smile and a sob story.


Maybe this is why I like Jane Austen so much. All of her characters get admiration and happy endings, accommodating Fanny Price and prideful Lizzy Bennet, impressionable Catherine Morland and entitled Emma Woodhouse, reserved Elinor, unguarded Marianne, and Anne Eliot, who's a lovely blend of sweet and smart, soft and strong.


Well... that's it. I've said what I needed to and now I'm not entirely sure how to conclude.


*Shrugs* Until next time.


~Pearl Clayton        

And Thus, 2015: A Dialogue

Oh, mercy. Help me, help me, it's another year. 2014 is over and we'll never get it back. No, no, no, no, no, no, now January 1st is nearly done! There's only 364 days left and I haven't done anything yet! Oh, no, no, where is the time going? I'll never get anything done. There's no time. I'll never accomplish anything. I'll never amount to anything. I am nothing. I am nothing.


Now, come, what's this? You've had a good day. A wonderful breakfast, a better dinner. Time spent with an old friend and some new friends, with family and Stan Lee. And let me just say, my girl, you looked perfect today. I can't think of a better opening to the new twelvemonth. And oh, think of how many brilliant plans you've got for the year ahead! C'mon, you, it's going to be a great year!


But no, no, there were so many things I was planning on doing today that I didn't get done! And I'll still do them, but they won't be the same because it won't be January 1st anymore! Such an important day, and all I did was watch movies and eat!


All? All? Your plans aren't as important as your family and your friends and your joy. Don't sacrifice special moments like the ones you had today in the name of your ultimately arbitrary lists.


What if I die?


I beg your pardon?


Car wrecks. Mass shootings. Cancer. Appendicitis. Aneurysms. The Second Coming that everyone except me seems to be looking forward to so blithely. I could be dead tomorrow.


You're not going anywhere tomorrow.


Anyone I care about could be dead tomorrow, then! I could lose everything and then some this year.


Or you might have spectacular gains.


There's no room in this world for optimism! I hardly see it anywhere.


I do.


I want this to stop.


I know.


I want everything to stop.


I know.


But not really. What I want is for everything to keep going like it has been practically my whole life. No goodbyes, no deaths, no ends, no losses. Just continuity occasionally interrupted by some welcome hellos and some closer bonds.


I think most everyone wants that.


...


*Whispers*


I'm afraid.


I know.


I just want to feel happy. Happy like I was this afternoon. All the time.


I know.


I just want to feel safe. And secure. And loved.


I know.


Oh, oh, I so desperately want God to be real.


He is.


I wish I could be that sure.


I know.


I feel so lonely sometimes, and I just want company. I want to be near my friends. I want to meet the faraway, imaginative people I admire so much. I want the characters in the books and the movies to appear beside me and tell me things are going to be alright. I want someone I can share my soul with.


You have people like that. You've shared your soul.


Not all of it.


True.


Then, other times, I want to leave everyone behind forever. I want a crushing solitude. I crave that aching loneliness. I half-want to be forgotten. I want to dwell somewhere far away, in the silence and distance and isolation that alone among all mortal things can protect a fragile heart.


Better a broken heart than no heart at all.


I wish you wouldn't quote Doctor Who at me when I'm trying to be depressing.


My apologies.


*Sigh*


I can't stop it. Any of it. It's all so sickeningly far beyond my control.


And that's the worst of it, isn't it?


Yes.


Mature of you to admit it.


Oh, do shut up.


In your dreams.


Hmph.


...


So what now?


Reading.


Obviously. And then?


Writing, perhaps. You said you'd get back into it after New Year's.


Ah, yes. Another thing I was going to do today and didn't.


Which is fine.


Whatever. Then what?


I don't know, a movie maybe?


I doubt I'll feel awake enough. I'm so tired these days.


Bed, then.


Is that it?


For now.


But what if there's nothing beyond now?


I thought you were happy with now. I thought you didn't want anything to change.


The fact that I don't want it won't prevent it from coming.


Then it will come when it's time. For now, I think you're doing fine.


I wish I had your confidence.


Could you settle for my contentment?


If I knew a good way of finding it.


Your new calendar sure is glorious.


Wow, I feel so much better.


It is!


I never said it wasn't. I love the new calendar. I like it better than last year's.


There, see? A silver lining.


Huh. Well, yeah, I suppose it's something.


...


I don't know what else to say to you. Except...


It's okay.


We're okay.


We're okay?


Yes.


Yes.


Oh, please...


Let this one be a good one.


~Pearl Clayton