on ego

Confession: I Google myself. Often. It started as a way for me to track my digital footprint, to see what writing comes up without me having to type in “Ola Faleti poetry” or “Ola Faleti essays”. I won’t expose myself by revealing the frequency with which I do this, but I also won’t lie and say it’s not a boon to my ego to see this webpage as the first Google result. 

I had an interesting talk with my therapist about personal growth, among other topics. I feel painfully and blissfully awake these days. She brought up a concept of fluidity, an acceptance of what the universe has in store for us. Which can only truly come with letting go of attachment to fixed outcomes and how we are perceived. Letting go of ego.

This is something I’ve been tussling with as I work to compile a poetry collection. It’s been refreshing, reflective, and a special kind of labor. But what does it mean to let go of ego while creating work that will ultimately be for public consumption?  I pay more attention than ever to other poets’ collections and published poems. Old questions start to rear their heads again -- everyone else’s poems are so much better than mine. Who the fuck is going to read a book I wrote. Who the fuck is going to read a poetry collection. I struggle with self-promotion the way a lot of writers do. Because deep down, I don’t expect anyone to care. I don’t expect what I say to matter to anyone except me. 

I circle back to the question -- if I write a poem in the woods and no one is around to read it, is it still a poem? I fervently say, yes. The creative process unveils all kinds of new information about the interiors of who we are, as artists and outside of that identity. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s okay if no one reads what I have to say, or only one person does.  It’s not as if I do this for money. For recognition? Not inherently. I just want to be seen for who I am. And few things reflect me better than my words.