I came across To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf in February of 2025 after learning that her style shared similarities to Faulkner, a writer known for utilizing stream-of-consciousness to explore the complex depths of his characters. From the opening pages, I was blown away. Time is relative; mere seconds in the story stretch across several paragraphs of rich detail and internal thought. I highly recommend it.
There’s a particular passage that has continued to stay with me since reading it. In the passage, Lily Briscoe—a passionate, nascent artist—is gazing upon a couple of bright violet flowers set before a white wall. As she attempts to paint what she sees, she reflects on her frustrating inability to do so:
She could see it all so clearly, so commandingly, when she looked: it was when she took her brush in hand that the whole thing changed. It was in that moment’s flight between the picture and her canvas that the demons set on her who often brought her to the verge of tears and made this passage from conception to work as dreadful as any down a dark passage for a child. Such she often felt herself—struggling against terrific odds to maintain her courage; to say: “But this is what I see; this is what I see,” and so to clasp some miserable remnant of her vision to her breast, which a thousand forces did their best to pluck from her. And it was then too, in that chill and windy way, as she began to paint, that there forced themselves upon her other things, her own inadequacy, her insignificance…
I want to start by saying that this was and still is the most relatable thing I’ve ever read. As someone with no talent in painting, I can attest that this is exactly how it feels every time I pick up a paintbrush.
In all seriousness, Woolf captures the feeling of doubt that creeps up on us whenever we embark on any difficult and worthwhile endeavor. It’s easy to feel like a fraud in today’s world. Imposter syndrome affects us all, at least from time to time. When we feel called to bring a vision to life—be it a painting, a story, a future self whom we aspire to become—self-doubt inevitably creeps its way into our brains, causing us to spiral. Sometimes a small failure, like forgetting to do the dishes, can feel like proof that we’re inadequate, undeserving of happiness, and doomed to a messy life.
That feeling is there when I make bold promises to myself about working out consistently, in hopes of one day looking like Nam Joo Hyuk (I’m delusional). It’s there when I sit down to try to write the short story I’ve been thinking about for months, and it’s there when I develop a roll of 36 exposures, only to like 2 or 3 of the film scans. It’s there now, as I write this post, and as I start this blog.
It’s hard. There’s a persistent voice inside telling me to stop making a fool out of myself. No one cares. There’s nothing new under the sun. There isn’t a single original thought. Why try? What am I trying to say? Who am I trying to impress?
And yet, like Lily, despite the uncertainty, I have no choice but to persist. Something in me desperately wants to create, however trivial or imperfect that creation might be. Until then, and each time I set out to achieve something, I’ll keep telling myself:
But this is what I see. This is what I see.
marginalia 