“My Success Ain’t Gotta Make Sense to You” and other blatant truths

I once made the mistake of saying I didn’t want to be that successful. It was 2010 and the question to be majorly or a minor success was passed around as we each sat at cubicles in temp positions. I said I didn’t but neglected to speak my whole peace in time before the sucked teeth and confused glares came my way. What I meant to say was I don’t want the level of notoriety and fame (at that time meaning success) that denotes fleeing from paparazzi, lying about locations, etc. But what was heard is I don’t want success, which is far from the truth.

High school: 2005. I was cornered by friends after watching Making the Band and asked if Diddy approached me yielding a 1 million dollar contract would I sign. I said no. I was called a liar and crazy. And we’ve barely heard from Dream, Day 26, Da Band or Loon since.

Forgive my quiet riot. I guess I just get it. I’m acutely aware that I’m not cut from the Kardashian cloth of spilling my own tea. And I’m cool with it. Because I get taking baby steps. Right now I see myself as a baby mogul. I own and operate within my businesses of writing, photography and awakening. I conduct a therapeutic writing course for girls during the summer. I create body-positive campaigns behind and in front of the camera. I’m a voice, a construct, a work in progress. I know that. Babies grow. So I get annoyed when folk are bothered with where I am and where they perceive I should be. They feel the need to tell me what I’m not striving for in their opinion. Indicated by my need to not constantly talk about my “grind”. I don’t have a meetup at Panera every three days. I don’t decide to show up to the function solely for the photo op. I’d rather just shut up and do it. Do all the things. Be what I needed and oftentimes still need to the world. I don’t crave rushed success; I’d rather let all my beats build and strike like a Beyonce cobra: with no warning in devastating effect. That I-remember-where-I-was-when-she-did-this type life. That’s what I want. That’s what I’m working towards. Subscribing to any other truth but my own is criminal.

But oh the pressure. Pressure to yield. Pressure to commit. Pressure to fit. And I’ve always been jagged; square in round spaces. With so many ventures popping up daily — internet sensations, Vine celebs and folks with tees, 30 second self-help courses and workout vids — it’s tempting to think that there is no more room. All the thoughts have been had and acted upon.

Ship it home. You’re done.

But again about that rushed success. Microwave credibility. I’m made for staying power, and if that means my simmer is longer so be it. I’ll take it since I know the taste will be its strongest.

There’s always a poem in mind. A post. A shot. A plan. I’m covered in half-folded notebooks and memory cards. You can’t see me and that’s what I want: the element of successful surprise.