Ever-twinning
Announcements; thinking about envy and originality; a few requests
Preamble & news
Hello! I switched it up and am writing from a local coffeeshop and bookstore, the Writer’s Block. It’s cozy and cute and I feel silently in solidarity with the other writers and readers in the room. I’ve forgotten how nice it is to stare at books that aren’t mine, books I haven’t read or heard of. Without realizing it, choosing to come to here today is an example of taking myself on an “artist’s date”—one of the most well-known aspects of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way.
For those unfamiliar with that book and concept, The Artist’s Way is a 12-week guide to creative growth and self-discovery. After watching several people decide to do it—
led a group a few years ago, and started one more recently—I’ve decided to take the plunge this spring. Per usual, I am content being a lone wolf. But I also welcome anyone who’d like to join: reply to this email if you’re curious, or if you have tips from your own journey to share.A final note: I shared it on instagram already but, my essay Return of the Sun—which began as a vessels post that I took time to re-work and modify—recently won second place in the Alaska Writers Guild’s nonfiction contest! I’m hopeful about my attempts to invest in local writing communities, and the external validation feels great.
Okay, announcements are over (until the end, heh). Let’s delve into the concept of originality, particularly as it relates to artistic expression.
Finding my twins
After sending my last newsletter, which I rather lazily titled “How to be human,” I was reading through the pile of other newsletters and articles I hadn’t gotten around to yet that week. At the end of one of Sister Spinster’s emails, she mentioned an interview she did back in January on a podcast called, wait for it, “How to Be Human.”
It’s not that it’s an original concept—clearly, figuring out “how to be” is one of the central questions of philosophy and is something humans have been thinking about for all our collective lives. Krista Tippett’s On Being puts it well: “We are animated by humanity’s ancient questions, newly alive in this century:
What does it mean to be human?
How do we want to live?
And who will we be to each other?”
So… yeah. There’s nothing original about titling my post “How to be human,” nor the fact that the same phrase is the title of a podcast featuring interviews with writers and artists I admire, nor that there are indeed multiple podcasts with that title.
What I’m curious about is my reaction to this discovery: how, upon reading the Sister Spinster email with the link to the How to Be Human podcast, my cheeks turned pink and my eyes clouded. How I felt like a fraud for having chosen those four words for my own post’s title; how I hadn’t even thought to google the phrase before posting. How maybe that’s the reason my post wasn’t getting as many “likes” on the Substack app as other posts; naturally, people saw the title, realized it was a derivative and borderline fraudulent post, and moved on.
It’s the same feeling I had when, several weeks into writing this newsletter, I realized there was already at least one other Substack called
. Although it doesn’t seem to be updated much anymore, that one has cooler graphics than mine, I thought (and still think). That one has a fun voice and is written by someone who appears to be effortlessly beautiful. Again, the thought of, maybe that’s why my newsletter doesn’t have as many subscribers as some other Substacks do: because people think this “vessels” is derivative and borderline fraudulent, not nearly as cool as the perhaps-defunct “The Vessel” was.Oof. These thoughts are exhausting.
In “There I Almost Am: on envy and twinship,” Jean Garnett—a writer I envy—explores the mixture of comfort and pain that encompasses being an identical twin. She and her twin work in the same industry; not only do they share “the same laugh sounds and laugh lines, the very same early marks of age; the same face,” but they also have the “exact same editorial position at different publishing companies and are in direct competition with each other, sometimes even bidding against each other in auctions.”
I used to crave twinship. For a while I almost had a twin: a friend from summer camp whose birthday was exactly a month before mine and whose name was what my brother would have been called if he were born female. Prepubescent girls can often look alike so long as they share the same skin tone, hair color, eye color. Me and my camp twin did; ergo, we were twins, the differing months of our birthdays a mere clerical error. We were the same. We replicated each other.
Jean Garnett writes: “You want your identical twin to be beautiful, to confirm that you are beautiful, but you also want her to be ugly, to confirm that she is uglier than you.”
I envy so much of that piece. How well-researched it is: how deeply it covers the topic of envy. I’m envious of how she explores her ugly emotions: how frankly she admits to her darknesses without pandering or losing the reader’s (my) respect. I want the courage to write like that.
The piece ends with a perspective flip: we get a glimpse, for once, into the twin’s mind. It turns out there’s another side to the story. It turns out the pendulum does, indeed, swing from one end fully back to the other.
So often I forget my role in a relationship; the effect I have on someone else, even when I feel powerless. In my mind, like in Garnett’s, I’m always the uglier twin. I’m the newsletter that’s a copy; the unoriginal, derivative thought.
It’s safe there, to feel inferior. It feels safer to throw a pity party in the corner than to take up space and be responsible for the effect I have on others. I’m working on it: working on owning the ways I can be, and am, the pretty twin. Working on stepping away from the mirror and realizing it’s not a competition at all: I need the people that I envy, just as I am needed by those who envy me. I’ve written about this before, at least twice. And I’ll keep writing about it, I’m sure. Because no matter what I accomplish, there will always be more to want.
Garnett quotes Schopenhauer: “envy ‘builds the wall between Thee and Me thicker and stronger,’” while sympathy, in Schopenhauer’s formulation, tears the wall down. But in Garnett’s view, maybe envy and sympathy are “both adaptations to each other—sympathy a penance for primal aggression, envy a defense against annihilating love.”
Without envy, perhaps the desire to merge would be too great. Envy can remind us of our own bounds: I want that in part because I don’t have it. Thus, I am aware of where I end. An external marker of selfhood—it’s much easier to trace our shape from the outside than articulate it in a positive sense from within.
Envy is motivating. How beautiful to know what it is I want, and feel free to pursue it. Unlike Garnett, who I’m sure would plunge much further into the depths, I feel the need to stop this post here. This half-baked discussion is, for now, my limit.
Call to action!
If you’ve made it this far: thank you. Something must have grabbed you in this or another email to make you subscribe and keep reading, and I’d love to hear what that is. The more accountability I have to you readers, the more likely it is I can keep writing. It means the world to feel your support.
So in the vein of asking for help, I came up with a few requests. I would *love* if you did any of the following, to the extent you feel comfortable:
Respond to this email and tell me a bit about yourself and what brought you to, or keeps you at, vessels. In addition, do you have suggestions for future posts?
Share your favorite essay with 1-2 people you think might enjoy it;
Go back to your favorite posts and “like” (the heart button) or comment on them;
Let Substack know what you enjoy about vessels at this link here.
Thank you so much in advance! I can’t wait to hear what you have to say.
Following Carrot’s link brought me here and I’m grateful. I found myself relating heartily and with some envy and admiration. Thank you.
I admire your honesty and the clarity of your writing.