The Great Pretender
“Pretend you’re happy when you’re blue; it isn’t very hard to do. And you’ll find happiness without an end whenever you pretend. Remember, anyone can dream, and nothing’s bad as it may seem. The little things you haven’t got could be a lot if you pretend. You’ll find a love you can share, one you can call all your own. Just close your eyes, she’ll be there; you’ll never be alone. And if you sing this melody, you’ll be pretending just like me. The world is mine! It can be yours, my friend. So, why don’t you pretend?”
While ‘The Great Pretender’ is the namesake of this post, the lyrics I referenced above derive from a different tune: ‘Pretend’ by Nat ‘King’ Cole; growing up, I loved that song and still do. But to prepare my thoughts for you today, a question ran across my mind. Do you find there’s a line between pretending and imagination? I conclude that there is a difference, although, as a natural woolgatherer, I used to grapple with separating the two.
Imagination is vision, the advent of manifestation while pretending is unproductive and inactive, costing one borrowed time they don’t even deserve to possess. I’ve learned this the hard way in substituting imagining for the lesser. In addition to time, once, I lost the desire to dream; my faith was small, and I deemed myself hopeless. Though the season I speak of has passed, I’m well aware that feelings like those are bound to appear in my life again—this time, not stealing my appetite to imagine, but with hurdle placement.
A perfect example is what you’re currently reading; I am two days past my standing blog post schedule for the first time since I began Be Write Black last spring. Previously, there were times I posted things on second or fourth Fridays rather than the first and third, which is when I announced potential adherents would get content. [Perhaps I should just change it to Fridays?] In any case, my time management could have been better in certain areas, but for the most part, I’ve been consistent, and I aim to keep writing for whoever finds me interesting.
I might stress that I will keep writing for myself, too, and while the price of being a writer is high because we’re often scatterbrained litterateurs with ideas like stars in the skies of our minds, I wouldn’t have it any other way. However, enmity lies between myself and writer’s block as it’s gettin’ in the way of what I’m feeling, as Jilly from Philly sings. And rather than pretending that I haven’t been a drifter near Baffled Junction these last few weeks, I’m telling you like it is. I have been.
As a Sagittarius, I’m an innate optimist, but still, very much a realist. And the reality is I’m not a great pretender of anything; as mentioned in a previous post here called, The Leonine Lyricist, I will not waste words on insignificant rhetoric. If I have nothing valuable and worthwhile to offer, I will not pretend I do, nor will I question or carp the timing during this process anymore. The message or concept of whatever I create in whatever medium will come when it’s supposed to; hell yes, dry spells are the devil to creators.
I suppose the real devil keeps us clouded with frustration, preventing us from catching a glimpse of the sun behind them. I’ve fallen prey to vexation enough times in my life to know it’s just as bad as pretending in that it gets you nowhere for a long time if you permit it. Nowadays, in these cases, I unplug from every thought or feeling that pisses me off, chuck ‘em in the Fuck-It Bucket, and engross myself in things I love. Before I know it, I can see the sun again, inhale the concurrent fresh air, and stroll wherever it sees fit to take me.
If you’ve never heard ‘Pretend’ by Nat ‘King’ Cole, you’re welcome.
