It turns out I’m not the only person in the world who loves to write. Wild, no? I grew up around Indians and Indian Americans, which meant that, generally speaking, any artistic prowess was meant to be fostered in between better, more lucrative things. But more than that, I just happened to not surround myself with people who would’ve thought to seriously pursue English. I didn’t think myself above or below them in any way; we were just different. I appreciated that, honestly. But I did spend those months before college eager to meet more like-minded people, and it was still a shock to see the gradient of creatives walking down the street alongside me.
Something I didn’t expect to contend with was this feeling of no longer being special. I’ve always been friends with curious, bright people, but at NYU it’s as though every single person I meet has created something, reinvented something, pushed something to its limits and then beyond. I, on the other hand, have written something that falls in a long line of stories in the same exact genre, and will soon fall to obsolescence.
In New York, I began to feel this immense pressure to be entirely singular. I have always been reserved about sharing the details of my writing with other people, but I now felt obligated to add caveats: I wrote these books at such a young age that they are bound to be less than perfect, I plan to move beyond this genre when I’m older, I read so much more than this (I read classical literature, please recognize my intellect).
The craziest part about this? Nobody cares.
I keep having to remind myself that I can still take pride in having put in the effort to bring something to fruition. It doesn’t make sense that I can write two entire novels and still feel inadequate, then turn around and assure everyone else that there is no time limit to accomplishment. Why can’t I apply that logic to myself?
Also, there are students at NYU better at writing than I am, big shocker. I see that every day I sit in a creative writing class, and before the disheartenment sets in, I force that fact to motivate me instead. I get more passionate, and I become a stronger writer.
What people actually love to hear is you talking about why you care, what you’re passionate about, the things that make you happy, whatever that might be. Not once have I experienced judgment or scrutiny for not looking to write the next Great American Novel, but I preempt my explanations in anticipation of that. It’s more pathetic, I think, than actually facing judgment. If someone does not want to hear about your dreams, they will not be privy to their fulfillment. That is their loss, not yours.
I can go on and on about this, prove with receipts what you can learn by understanding your merits and embracing your shortcomings, but the truth is, I’m still working toward practicing the certain, unadulterated self-confidence I preach about. I can be awful about taking compliments from other people, and even worse from myself, so I imagine it will take a while to talk myself up to other people without feeling the weight of unease. Even during interviews, when I enumerate my skills and qualities, I am simply performing. If I get the position, it isn’t me I have to thank, it is that facsimile of myself. The city and its endless opportunities can at once make you feel like a star and an imposter.
But I am the one who wrote those books. I am the one meeting those people, getting those internships, putting myself out there. I am the one experiencing the countless rejections, and I am the one who breaks down and picks myself back up to try again.
Whatever it is that you do, if it is something you are passionate about, the people worth your respect will respect your passion in kind. But more importantly, you will learn your own value once you set aside the impression that you must be uniquely expert in all that you do. Someone will be better than you, more reputable than you, and receive accolades you’ll take years to touch, but that’s no excuse to stop.
The people you meet are not looking to rate you but to learn about you. So tell them, and leave nothing out.
By Oshmi Ghosh
Oshmi Ghosh is a rising junior at NYU’s College of Arts and Sciences, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in English with minors in Creative Writing, History, and Entertainment Business. You can usually find her appreciating the simple things in life: tea with milk and sugar, a good book, and/or intensely competitive board games.
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