Insecurities

I read lots of books and for some reason, it bothers me more than TV and magazines which also features perfect people, but maybe it's because in a book, you don't see.  On TV and in magazines, they're all pretty people so you can imagine that appearance is their only skill, but in a book, it's different.

In, what feels like, all books, there has to be the amazing main character.  She's pretty, but doesn't realize it because, of course, she's humble.  She's so brilliant, no one else can compare.  The detective who has such amazing powers of deduction, no one else can see the solution until he spells it out for them.  Of course they are flawed, too.

It's the classic tragic hero.  Knowing the symbolism of knowledge past doesn't make it any easier to swallow.

I read and read, but then I look around the world and I get stuck because I know people who are really beautiful.  I know people who are really smart.  I've met amazing writers and talented artists.  I see the talent and skill it takes to be a superior mom or an exceptional accountant.

And then there's me.  I lost a bunch of weight and looked in the mirror and remembered why I let myself go.  There's no pretty face under there.  In fact, I'm a little on the unattractive side.  If passion was talent, I'd be the best writer on the planet, but it isn't and despite college level training, online research, and attentiveness to other opinions and my own, I've wished to be a writer for about 27 years and I'm still not *that* good.  I'm not very smart, I don't like people, I lack skills everywhere.  I can't be defined by my job, nor do I want to be.

I'm not that depressed today.  I'm just exhausted by the fact that I'll never be what I want and what's the point in being anything else?  Accepting average is such a disappointment.