Low Self Esteem and the Artistic Ego

I wonder what exactly is the artistic ego I've heard so much about. Various therapists have explained to an incredulous me that there is this thing called a healthy ego which has a reasonably accurate picture of the self and one's relation to the world, is generally positive, doesn't depend on the approval of others won at the cost of integrity by adapting to every slight fluctuating sign of interest or disinterest. So, is the artistic ego an outsized ego that has incredibly thick skin, ignores the raised eyebrow, plows straight ahead on its idiosyncratic adventures without concern? There is evidence of that in the world. Or is the artistic ego the opposite: a deeply insecure constantly questioning fragile neurosis trying to establish itself through representation after representation, never satisfied, full of self-criticism, easily wounded and offended? There is evidence for that too. Now, I know there is a certain personality type that is the unfortunate combination of the worst qualities of these two caricatures. In other words, there are people in this world who seek to make themselves feel more important than they are by feeling crappy about themselves all the time. It's the old "Everybody in this room thinks I'm a terrible person" syndrome, or if you're a writer, "I'm a genius! I'm an idiot! Nobody appreciates me! That person who said my work is good was lying!" syndrome. Don't ask me how I know this.

I had this sudden vision of my own work today as a pile of sentimental, cliched crap. It was horrible and I can't quite shake it. I try hard not to judge my own work or myself. Try to leave the critical analysis to others. But sometimes, especially after a long period without getting anything published, I just can't help myself. I know intellectually that my job is just to write the poems that show up to be written. To stay true to my ear and my aesthetic. But, damn, sometimes the slog feels like a slog.

The Complete Unknown

I frequently have mixed feelings

And am divided against myself

Half in love with easeful death

While standing on the beach in Eleuthera

There is no lifeguard and no rope

To stop me from swimming out too far

The water is almost invisible

The slope as gradual as the everlasting

Like a lifetime of minor betrayals

There is no algorithm to describe

A world resplendent with uncertainty

No big data computation to say

How the water dissolves the razor sharp shadows

Or the fluttering wings of a southern ray

Keith Dunlap

Sunday Puzzle

Just the word, Sunday, in the title

Makes me think of her and how she loved

Wallace Stevens, at least his poetry

And of her sister, the forty-year-old Buddhist

Who read “Sunday Morning” at her memorial service

And how Philip and I wept into each other’s arms

Each of us conscious of how each of us fell short

Of her love. What it was for Philip I couldn’t say

But for me it was that day when sick from chemotherapy

She confessed that her dying wish was for us to go away

Together and have sex before she was too frail

And I promised her we would knowing full well

That it would never come to pass and then she asked

What I thought happened after death

And I got all tongue-tied and gave

Some lame pseudo-philosophical reply

When all she wanted me to do was deceive her

When I told the truth and be truthful when I lied

Keith Dunlap