That Singular Feeling
My mother brought up the Regional Schools Press Conference while we were eating lunch, and unfortunately her beloved interns did not bring home the bacon (my father made us some pork belly with a wicked barbecue sauce, though, so it made for a nice consolation prize for me, if not for the interns). This, of course, made my mother bring up one of her favorite topics: my hat trick victory at my very own RSPC over a decade ago now. I won the Feature Writing contest and placed second or third in the Editorial Writing and News Writing contests… I think.
You might find it strange that I don't even remember what I won; it's fair to assume that this would be a rather pleasant memory for me, and that's partly true, but I've tried my damndest over the years not to dwell on it. For better, but mostly worse, this victory set me on a trajectory of a life that could only be generously described as mercenary, and more aptly described as a life as undignified as a swindler's, except I'm fooling no one but myself.
I don't want to be someone who peaked in high school. It feels a little pathetic that my most impressive and tangible accomplishment in the eyes of the public still seems to be that time when I made the guy in charge of the press conference—a short and portly man who looked like Mr. Weatherbee from Archie—mad that I kept going back on stage to take more trophies. I'd like to think I'm a better writer, a better person now, but I suppose actually becoming a better person would require the honesty and self-reflection that I've been avoiding until now.
Part of why I don't even remember much of what happened at the time was because I wasn't really paying much attention to anything. I know it doesn't inspire confidence in my ability as a writer to admit that I wasn't being observant, but I had a reason. I believe even now that it was the only real reason I won: I had resolved to focus only on the competition. My mind at the time thought of nothing but writing. I didn't even resolve to win, really—for whatever reason, maybe because it was my last year of high school, maybe I wanted to prove myself somehow, but I resolved then and there that I would put everything I had into the competition and leave without any regrets.
Ironically, I do regret it now, even though a part of me feels I wouldn't have changed my mind for anything. I realize now that there was nothing really admirable about that resolve.
All I remember from my time at the RSPC are stupid, incidental details. I didn't even know where the hell the press conference was going to take place; my single-mindedness was just that strong.
I remember when we arrived, I had my tinny Philips earbuds on playing a song from an album no one but me liked. I stepped out of the van and immediately noticed that the streets had open sewers like my hometown, Dolores, and while it was a little gross, it was also a familiar anchor point in a town that felt about as real to me as a dream.
The town, Sogod (probably), felt both familiar and slightly off-base. It seemed permanently overcast during our stay there, and the light that filtered through the clouds seemed so bright I was almost sure there was something wrong with my eyes, the edges of my vision blurred like a cheap lens. In one particularly strange memory that I'm not even sure really happened, our van stopped at a spot on the highway that the driver claimed never stopped raining.
There was a flea market near the school we were staying at. My friends invited me to check out the town with them, but I was so lost in the haze of my own focus that I could only give them a half-hearted smile and a weak "nah, I'm good." I regret that now; I could have just made some memories, mundane, pointless, and wonderful, instead of this malformed patchwork of vignettes I couldn't even be halfway nostalgic about.
Instead of "having a good time," I locked myself in my own mind and drowned myself in words. Facts, arguments, maxims, anecdotes, cheap words, hundred-dollar words. Everything that I knew I could write down; sophistry so shameless it would make a politician blush (I remember using this exact phrase in the contests, even).
When it came time to actually write, in the boring old classrooms that served as competition spaces, I felt such a sublime sense of calm and focus and transcendent thrill. The world looked so bright that even the peeling paint on the creaking armchairs seemed as precious as gemstones. I did all I could to stop myself from grinning from ear to ear. I probably looked insane. I probably was insane, in that perfect moment.
Everything after that was a haze. I ended up stepping up to the podium three times, to everyone's surprise, to my friends' and teachers' delight. I couldn't parse it as anything but validation, a byproduct of that perfect moment. This was what I was meant to be doing in life: chasing that bright light, that perfect moment, even if I ended up burning myself to chase it.
And, well. Guess what happened.
Because of my incredible performance at the regionals, everyone was expecting me to win at the nationals. I didn't, of course, and it felt awful seeing everyone's disappointed faces and the dour mood I had brought on the trip back home. Most cruel of all was that I wasn't able to recreate that perfect moment from regionals—it would have all been fine as long as I got to feel it again, medals be damned. But I didn't. I just felt the usual anxiety I felt in these competitions before the RSPC. No euphoria, just boring, cold reality.
I'm being dramatic, of course. It's not like I hate writing now, but I do feel like these things have defined who I am and what I desired for a long time. I kept chasing that perfect moment, that singular feeling of oneness to almost the exclusion of all other things, but could never truly get it back. But it's fine now. These days my relationship with writing has become (relatively) healthier, and I just enjoy it for what it is. I don't have to chase that feeling anymore because I just let it come to me when it wants to, and even when it doesn't I still keep writing. I find myself happy to do it anyway, despite the failures, rejections, because this is what I was meant to be doing, after all.