Until just a few years ago, I was convinced I was a genius. I would have bet on myself to win the Nobel Prize in Literature at some point during my lifetime. I was completely sure my first novel manuscript would be published and go on to have a massive impact on the contemporary literary landscape. Sure, I knew how few manuscripts manage to turn an agent’s head, how few beginning writers find success with their first novel attempt, but, in a classic pique of prefrontal-cortex-devoid youthfulness, I was sure that those types of concerns had no bearing on a genius like me.
Well, as you might have predicted, that novel didn’t sell. I’ve had a few short stories published in small online journals, I’ve been accepted into a fully funded MFA program, and I’m generally satisfied with the trajectory of my writing life — but there’s been nothing to suggest otherworldly levels of extraordinariness. Who'd've thunk it?
Which leads me to today’s reflection: It’s easier to think you’re a genius when you’re young because the burden of proof lies in the future. When you’re older, the present bears that burden, and your essential normalness is painfully apparent.
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