My Cool-As-Hell Alter Ego

Is She As Unattainable As I Think?

Do you, like me, have an ideal vision of yourself that seems unreachable? Like you’re the nerd and this vision is the popular girl saying, “You’re so not invited to your own life”?

I can see this vision—this alter ego—but I can’t touch her. I’m stuck behind the velvet rope. Unadmitted.

“What are you telling yourself you can’t do that you can?” This from Debbie Millman, on Mel Robbin’s podcast called How to Design Your Life, an episode I highly recommend. She describes a life-changing exercise where you write a response to the question: If you could have your life look like anything ten years in the future, what would it look like?

I conjured up my alter ego, who lives this supposedly unattainable fantasy life:

My alter ego wears overalls and her hair in a messy bun.

My alter ego wears paint-splattered, baggy clothes.

My alter ego stands in a large, windowed art studio, moving between multiple large canvases hung on the wall, splattering, pouring, swiping, dabbing paint, a la Helen Frankenthaler. A la Jackson Pollock.

My alter ego has a dog and an orange tabby cat, who cuddle together on a plush bed in the studio, then, when they get the zoomies, sprint in circles around me, playing hide and seek.

My alter ego plays loud music in the studio—Glass Animals, The Rolling Stones, Joni Mitchell, Lou Reed, whatever she’s in the mood for —and dances, conducting in the air with a paint brush.

My alter ego takes a break by swimming in smooth lake water, floating on my back, looking up at the sky.

My alter ego lives in Maine.
My alter ego lives in New York City.

My alter ego lives in Paris.

My alter ego picks up and goes when she wants, without being neurotic about the dog getting sad and forgetting about her.

My alter ego walks in green forests for hours. There are streams. She hears the sound of rushing water. Her mind doesn’t go to bears, or serial killers. Or if it does, she knows she can get some bear spray.

My alter ego goes to protests. Makes her voice heard.

My alter ego has a routine, and it goes like this: Wake up, meditate, dog walk and coffee with friends, home and breakfast, off to the studio for a few hours to paint, bringing the dog. Meditate again. Do something physical: walk or yoga or bike. Meet a friend for a glass of wine or a cup of tea or dinner. Read a book. Make dinner. Write something. Stretch. Sleep.

On weekends, my alter ego goes to the movies, on a hike, to a gallery or two, walks in cities, hangs out with family and friends.

My alter ego not only writes her books, but finishes. Submits them. Moves to the next.

My alter ego has published a book of poetry, a novel, a memoir, a children’s book, and a middle grade book.

My alter ego has an MFA in writing poetry. Also in painting. Also in fiction.

My alter ego goes to art residencies.

My alter ego shows her paintings in galleries. She has art shows. She exists in a community of artists.

My alter ego is a mishmash of Sally Mann, Georgia O’Keeffe, Patti Smith, Helen Frankenthaler, Alice Neel, Sharon Olds, Ann Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Vanessa Bell.

So what is keeping me from merging this alter ego self into my own self that already exists, like those movies they showed in science class of two cells blobbing into one?

I’ve been reading Sally Mann’s latest memoir, “Art Work,” and one thing that sticks out, despite her claims of insecurity, is her confidence. That, and bluster. And perseverance. She had it since she was 17—this ability to move forward with conviction, in spite of rejection and voices of doubt in her head. About rejections she writes: “I got up in the morning after every single one of them, as if the past held “no lessons, no truth,” a gift of ignorance generously bestowed to Southerners, and I kept working. My heart did not stop…I was moving ahead.” (p.43)

I listened to a podcast called The Shift recently, to an episode with the writer Julia Cameron, creator of The Artist’s Way. She explained that every time someone said she couldn’t do something (because she was a woman, etc.) it actually fueled her determination.

My first defeatist thought is, oh well, I’m not like Sally Mann and Julia Cameron. They started young, and believed in themselves. My family curse is lack of self confidence.

I didn’t do x and I didn’t do y and so now it’s too late.

I made the mistake of going to English grad school instead of the MFA program I got into.

I made the mistake of dropping out because I didn’t want to write academic papers.

I made the mistake of focusing on writing instead of art.

I wish I had known that art was something you could study in college.

Blah blah blahblahblah.

Curses can be self-imposed. Curses can be lifted.

Is it too late to wear overalls and my hair in a messy bun? No.

Is it too late to swim in a lake? No.

Is it too late to write and publish my books? No. (Especially if I roll with the times, and understand that publishing doesn’t have to mean publishing with a large conglomerate. It can look like small press or self publishing).

Is it too late to get an MFA? No. I’m not sure I want to shell out the money, though, but that will be my choice.

Is it too late to rent an art studio? No.

Somehow, I had convinced myself that there was a person at the entrance to said art studio, demanding to see my credentials. I think the only credential necessary for that is the ability to pay the rent. Which I’m not sure I want to do. But still—having a studio is not actually unattainable.

It’s not like I want to be Nadia Commaneci or Cindy Crawford, aspirations that might actually have some roadblocks.

My alter ego already exists inside me. I am the gatekeeper. I am the creator of the vision. I am the one who can pull back the velvet rope saying, “Come on in. Come on in.”