I wrote this a few years back...
When I finally made up my mind to work from home I did it for several reasons. Maybe some of these are what you are thinking and maybe some seem a bit selfish, but remember one thing. You only get to go around once. Why spend it doing some one else’s work for most of your life and then complaining about it?
I am 38 years old. I have been on all sides of the employment coin. I’ve been in federal and local government service, the private sector and Big Business. I’ve also spent time in the non-profit world. And though each of these jobs had its benefits, excellent people and some satisfaction, nothing has ever been more rewarding than starting my own freelance commercial writing business.
Once I got beyond the fear that every independent business owner must face, I mean everything from failure to ‘how to write a winning resume’; the transition was quite a bit smoother than I anticipated. Not that there haven’t been some bumps. It’s impossible to plan for everything, so several items caught me slightly off guard. Things like how much it costs for a single business to register with the local Chamber of Commerce, and how much office supplies really cost. But the reality is I am happier now than at any point during one of my ‘jobs’.
This is not to say that all ‘jobs’ are bad, not even close. I know people who will most likely spend the rest of their lives earning a wage and are damned happy to have that. What I am saying is that working for someone else is not built naturally into us. It is an outside societal thing that is built in over the course of a life in school and friends. The concepts of self-employment are big with children. Witness any child looking for a way to purchase his next pack of Yu-Gi-Oh! Cards. He will sell the Popsicles out of his own freezer to earn cash. Or try to sell toys, lemonade, or his little sister if he thinks he can get away with it.
Over the course of the years he will hear his friends and family talk about getting good grades so that he can get a job that pays his bills and allows him to live a good life. Entrepreneurship is, in best cases ignored and in worst cases, shunned. But this is a new thing. Well, relatively new since last century.
It wasn’t that long ago that 90% of the population was self employed or used barter in some way to obtain the things they wanted. The industrial revolution and the creation of the ‘factory’ changed all that. People no longer needed to be skilled craftsmen to earn a way though life. All they needed was to be able to get up in the morning and punch the clock.
The skilled craftsmen of that time worked. Sometimes from sun-up to sundown. The work was arduous, tedious and often downright dangerous. But they produced products that they were proud of. Things made ‘with love’. The opposite of that is what we have now. I’m not pointing fingers, I am as guilty of this as the next person. I have had ‘jobs’ where I clocked in and did as little as possible. What did it matter to me? I was still getting paid. But now, as a single business owner, I am working harder than ever. But I am also enjoying it more. The work that I do benefits my customers, my family and hopefully the community at large. I love what I do, and I hope that it shows in the product that I produce. But in the working world, and I have heard this from dozens of friends and co-workers over my 22 year work history, as incentives get cut and jobs are on the line, there is no desire to ‘love’ what you do. In fact, most people work only because they must support themselves and do not feel the urge to own their own business.
Children feel the pinch of this as well. Their self-employment spirit is slowly dashed until only a handful will ever really try to be more than a cog on a wheel. Most will migrate from job to job and a lucky few will find a job they can care about. Current statistics show that the average American entering the workforce will change jobs every 5 years. And almost half will change entire career directions at least twice.
It’s a bit of a vicious cycle. Larger American companies are cutting staff at an alarming rate and according to most economists this has more to do with making the company competitive than any desire to add benefits to the lucky ones who survive the axe. I remember reading an article about a company here in Atlanta that cut over 8,000 jobs. To me that is tantamount to firing an entire town. And at the same time workers are less inclined towards company loyalty because they see jobs being shipped offshore. Benefits are being scaled back or completely cut. What’s the incentive? It’s like watching two people smack each other and not being able to stop because they don’t know how.
Now, when I started this piece I said that the reasons that I chose to go into business would seem selfish to some and may be just what others are thinking. My primary motivation was to have complete control of my time. I am a night owl. I do my best writing at night. And as a result I tend to sleep a little later in the morning. Setting your own hours is not something that a large majority of workers get to do. It really doesn’t matter to your employer when you do your best work. They pay you for certain hours and that is when you are to be there.
More importantly, I wanted to be available for my children. It took me 10 years to realize that day care was raising my kids instead of me. People don’t realize that children grow at an exponential rate now a days. The smiling, peach cobbler smeared toddler of today will be a grown woman in what feels like 15 minutes, and unless you are watching you will miss the whole thing.
To those of you beginning your own business, congratulations and DON”T give up. For those of you considering making the leap, keep this in mind; Do what you love and then find someone to pay you for it. (Best single piece of advice I have ever got.) And to those of you headed out to work, remember to do what you do for yourself, your family and your community at large.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
My Creed
By : Howard Arnold Walter (1883 - 1918)
I would be true, for there are those who trust me
I would be pure, for there are those who care
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer
I would be brave, for there is much to dare
I would be friend of all- the foe, the friendless
I would be giving, and forget the gift
I would be humble, for I know my weakness
I would look up- and laugh- and love- and lift.
I don't think theres anything else to add that...
I would be true, for there are those who trust me
I would be pure, for there are those who care
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer
I would be brave, for there is much to dare
I would be friend of all- the foe, the friendless
I would be giving, and forget the gift
I would be humble, for I know my weakness
I would look up- and laugh- and love- and lift.
I don't think theres anything else to add that...
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Running for my supper… Or How I Joined the UPS Nation
Huff.
Puff.
Pant.
Wheeze…
Um, excuse me for a minute while I bend over and throw up. Oh, wait, I already did that. Heck, I guess I’ll just get back in the truck and wait for the next house.
What? Already. Okay, damn. Out we go again. Up the hill, around the corner and a quick jump over the sleeping pit bull. Drop the package at the front door, turn around and realize that my quick jump woke up the 70 pound ball of razor blades and acid for blood dog. Hmmm. All this for a quick buck?
Let me back up a bit, in order to bring in money I took a job with UPS as a driver assistant. Sounds innocuous, right?
Umm, no.
First, let me point this out - there is a reason you NEVER see a fat UPS or FEDEX driver. The job runs the fat off of you in very short order. For a driver alone in a truck, there can be as many as 140 deliveries to make during a normal 8 to 10 hour day. There are times that they are so busy that the only breaks during the day involved taking a quick piss and grabbing a coke. Lunches frequent are ignored so that the job can get done in a decent amount of time. And as time progresses nearer to the holidays, that can get worse.
UPS took to hiring helpers to ride with the drivers to keep the process flowing. It makes the job easier for the primary driver and it helps employ some poor schmuck who needs a little help. Most people who do it are looking for extra Christmas cash. Some have been unemployed for a while and just need any kind of money.
And that’s where I enter the picture. No job, no money and the holidays rushing up like a fucking freight train on crack. Gotta do something to get some money coming in. So when the opportunity presents itself to work for one of the largest employers in America, I jump at the chance. Albeit somewhat reluctantly, but I jump nonetheless.
I am prepared for the whole ‘new guy’ effect. I am prepared for the possibility of getting bit by dogs, harassed by those few white people who still think blacks are the spawn of Satan. Heck I was even prepared for the small pay that they offer.
What I wasn’t prepared for were the hills. And the running. And the 3/10ths of a mile long driveways carrying Johnny or Janie’s 40 pound toy. Please remember, I am 43 years old. I stand 5’6” and weigh 210 pounds. So I am not exactly in prime fighting shape for my weight class. A polite person would call me pudgy, but I’m not polite so I call myself fat. Call a spade a spade and all that. I’ve been working on losing weight, but that’s a whole nuther blog entry.
The majority of houses that are on the route I share are in ‘upper’ class neighborhoods, which is to say that they are $250K and up. And I noticed one thing right away. They all love long, winding, sloping driveways. And dogs. They ALL love dogs…
In an effort to make the deliveries go faster the driver will park the truck on the street in front of the residence and run the package to the front door or garage of the home. During the orientation we were told that they expected a ‘brisk walk’ from the truck to the residence and back to the truck. I was quickly disabused of this notion by the driver I was assigned to. He doesn’t brisk walk. He runs. From the truck to the house and back, running. Fast.
Since I didn’t want to appear to be some sort of punk, I took my cue from him. But then reality, and gravity, set in. The first hill I ran up reminded me of the facts of life. From not running to running isn't a good idea for a 43 year old sedentary man. The driver is 24. Granted, he’s a bit taller than me, and might even outweigh me. But he's been doing this for 5 years.
And he’s 24…
I felt like a great beached whale the first time I tried to run back down a 25% grade driveway and all the flubber on my body was moving this way and that under my skin. It would have been embarrassing if I hadn’t been wrapped in a hoody. As it was, I’ve never noticed the areas of my body that were jiggling before. Stuff on my sides and in my back. Who ever notices the sides of their body?
Anyway, I worked the first two days for 2 hours each. 2 hours of hitting the ground running and trying to maintain that pace without bursting my heart. Oddly enough, I realized that I am in better shape than I thought. I only panted and wheezed for a few seconds after each delivery.
My body, though complaining loudly, seemed to be enjoying itself. With the exception of the 2 mile walks I take daily through our neighborhood, this is the most exercise that I’ve had in 3 years. When I was driving the tow truck I stayed in pretty good shape because of the physicality of the job. But two years working for AT&T, sitting in a cube and yakking on the phone had pretty much undone that.
It was weird and exhilarating to be moving again in the fresh air. It rained the first day, but the second day was nice and sunny, if a bit cold. The whole thing woke up a part of me that working in a strictly environment controlled building put to sleep a long time ago. I felt alive. I felt free. I also felt a LOT of pain.
The strange thing was, my body seemed to recover quickly. The morning of the second day I was stiff for a few moments, but after I got moving I was fine. The morning of the third day was a bit more intense. Even my ass muscles hurt. I’m telling you, if you’ve never had your ass muscles hurt; it’s a very unique experience. Try it sometime, seriously, I dare you.
The job is scheduled to last until the 31st of December. I will stick with it because we need the money. I will also stick with it because I am too stupid to quit. So unless I get hurt or mauled by somebody’s damned pit bull, I expect to be sore and happy for the next 25 or so days.
Pant.
Pant.
Puff.
Pant.
Wheeze…
Um, excuse me for a minute while I bend over and throw up. Oh, wait, I already did that. Heck, I guess I’ll just get back in the truck and wait for the next house.
What? Already. Okay, damn. Out we go again. Up the hill, around the corner and a quick jump over the sleeping pit bull. Drop the package at the front door, turn around and realize that my quick jump woke up the 70 pound ball of razor blades and acid for blood dog. Hmmm. All this for a quick buck?
Let me back up a bit, in order to bring in money I took a job with UPS as a driver assistant. Sounds innocuous, right?
Umm, no.
First, let me point this out - there is a reason you NEVER see a fat UPS or FEDEX driver. The job runs the fat off of you in very short order. For a driver alone in a truck, there can be as many as 140 deliveries to make during a normal 8 to 10 hour day. There are times that they are so busy that the only breaks during the day involved taking a quick piss and grabbing a coke. Lunches frequent are ignored so that the job can get done in a decent amount of time. And as time progresses nearer to the holidays, that can get worse.
UPS took to hiring helpers to ride with the drivers to keep the process flowing. It makes the job easier for the primary driver and it helps employ some poor schmuck who needs a little help. Most people who do it are looking for extra Christmas cash. Some have been unemployed for a while and just need any kind of money.
And that’s where I enter the picture. No job, no money and the holidays rushing up like a fucking freight train on crack. Gotta do something to get some money coming in. So when the opportunity presents itself to work for one of the largest employers in America, I jump at the chance. Albeit somewhat reluctantly, but I jump nonetheless.
I am prepared for the whole ‘new guy’ effect. I am prepared for the possibility of getting bit by dogs, harassed by those few white people who still think blacks are the spawn of Satan. Heck I was even prepared for the small pay that they offer.
What I wasn’t prepared for were the hills. And the running. And the 3/10ths of a mile long driveways carrying Johnny or Janie’s 40 pound toy. Please remember, I am 43 years old. I stand 5’6” and weigh 210 pounds. So I am not exactly in prime fighting shape for my weight class. A polite person would call me pudgy, but I’m not polite so I call myself fat. Call a spade a spade and all that. I’ve been working on losing weight, but that’s a whole nuther blog entry.
The majority of houses that are on the route I share are in ‘upper’ class neighborhoods, which is to say that they are $250K and up. And I noticed one thing right away. They all love long, winding, sloping driveways. And dogs. They ALL love dogs…
In an effort to make the deliveries go faster the driver will park the truck on the street in front of the residence and run the package to the front door or garage of the home. During the orientation we were told that they expected a ‘brisk walk’ from the truck to the residence and back to the truck. I was quickly disabused of this notion by the driver I was assigned to. He doesn’t brisk walk. He runs. From the truck to the house and back, running. Fast.
Since I didn’t want to appear to be some sort of punk, I took my cue from him. But then reality, and gravity, set in. The first hill I ran up reminded me of the facts of life. From not running to running isn't a good idea for a 43 year old sedentary man. The driver is 24. Granted, he’s a bit taller than me, and might even outweigh me. But he's been doing this for 5 years.
And he’s 24…
I felt like a great beached whale the first time I tried to run back down a 25% grade driveway and all the flubber on my body was moving this way and that under my skin. It would have been embarrassing if I hadn’t been wrapped in a hoody. As it was, I’ve never noticed the areas of my body that were jiggling before. Stuff on my sides and in my back. Who ever notices the sides of their body?
Anyway, I worked the first two days for 2 hours each. 2 hours of hitting the ground running and trying to maintain that pace without bursting my heart. Oddly enough, I realized that I am in better shape than I thought. I only panted and wheezed for a few seconds after each delivery.
My body, though complaining loudly, seemed to be enjoying itself. With the exception of the 2 mile walks I take daily through our neighborhood, this is the most exercise that I’ve had in 3 years. When I was driving the tow truck I stayed in pretty good shape because of the physicality of the job. But two years working for AT&T, sitting in a cube and yakking on the phone had pretty much undone that.
It was weird and exhilarating to be moving again in the fresh air. It rained the first day, but the second day was nice and sunny, if a bit cold. The whole thing woke up a part of me that working in a strictly environment controlled building put to sleep a long time ago. I felt alive. I felt free. I also felt a LOT of pain.
The strange thing was, my body seemed to recover quickly. The morning of the second day I was stiff for a few moments, but after I got moving I was fine. The morning of the third day was a bit more intense. Even my ass muscles hurt. I’m telling you, if you’ve never had your ass muscles hurt; it’s a very unique experience. Try it sometime, seriously, I dare you.
The job is scheduled to last until the 31st of December. I will stick with it because we need the money. I will also stick with it because I am too stupid to quit. So unless I get hurt or mauled by somebody’s damned pit bull, I expect to be sore and happy for the next 25 or so days.
Pant.
Pant.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
On becoming a hustler...
One of the weakest areas in my life has always been the fact that I don't have the gene that makes me a hustler.
What I mean is, I would probably starve to death if I had to rely on my ability to get out in the street and make money off of native talent or bullshitting skill. I could never run a confidence game or sell drugs. Whatever makes people able to do that, I never learned.
I bring this up because of the state that I currently find myself. In between jobs, with no money coming in. A sad state of affairs to be sure, but hardly unusual for present times. I am one of probably a million unemployed people across the country.
But the part that sucks and makes this harder for me to accept comes from the fact that I grew up in the projects. For 15 years I was surrounded by people who lived off of thier wits alone. Most were welfare mothers, hookers, drug dealers, pimps, drug addicts, and the occasional family who had just fallen on hard times and was trying to make things work the best way that they could.
These were people who could make a dollar last for what seemed like three months. Food stamps were traded for goods other than food. Bartering was a way of life, as was theft and the occasional beat down.
You might ask what I took away from all that? Honestly, nothing. Those were golden years for me. I remember my childhood as fairly happy. My mother made sure that we knew what to stay away from and who to be wary of. She kept us sheltered in some incredible way that only allowed a peripheral glimpse of what the world truly was.
It wasn't until I was 12 that I began to see the projects in its true light. And I think that the only reason I noticed was because I'd gone to Long Island to live with my father for two years. Long Island, Amityville to be exact (yes, that Amityville...) was a completely different world. People lived in houses. Actual houses that weren't directly attached to the neighbors house next door. They had yards and fences and garages and basements.
That I could see, no one was dealing drugs directly in front of our door or beating down his ho in the apartment above. In the projects at least once every few months the garbage house would mysteriously catch fire, merrily burning everyones rotting refuse along with half the building that it sat in. This was a problem becuase our apartment was pretty close by. In Amityville, no one ever set the garbage cans on fire just to see what the fire department would do.
So I spent two years hanging out with a group of kids that I could trust and who only once in a while got into fights, but nothing that ever involved knives or hot grits. I played handball on the back of the strip mall down from my fathers house and discovered a flowering sexuality with my 'girlfriend' Lisa.
Yeah, from 12 to 14 was a banner period. But as all things must, the time drew to a close and I decided that I didn't want to live so far away from my mother and my sisters. I wanted to be back home. The problem was, I had forgotten what home meant.
It meant going back to the projects. Granted, it also meant being around the people that I had grown up with and felt the closest to. Tyrone, Nelson, the Pachecos, and my 'brother' David. People I loved and had missed in the two years I'd been absent.
So my education in street continued for another year and a half before my mother got fed up with it and we moved out of New York and started what ultimately became my 'current' life.
But again, what did I take away with me? Nothing. Nothing of any substance. Lots of memories, but memories won't pay the bills.
I don't have the specialized bullshit knowledge to get out in the streets and hustle up dinner. I am stuffed into the thinking of a man who's best answer is to get a job for someone, despite the fact that I have at least 3 talents that I could get paid for.
I look at some of these 'celebrities' and I find myself wondering what separates me from them. It can't be the simple fact that they have a dream. I have a dream too, so that's no different.
I can't be that they have loads of money to begin with. Lots of them started by selling music out the back of thier cars. Some waited tables or slept on park benches. A few were homeless or worked for sorry ass American corporations before making it. So that isn't the answer. I've been through all of that, including being homeless with my wife and children.
So what's different? The urge to get out there and hustle every day until they get thier dream? The absolute unwillingness to follow a path that millions of Americans follow every day? The inability to quit no matter what life throws at them?
Or is it something more subtle. A desire to succeed that even they don't know they possess. Some innate will that drives them to greatness despite a billion obstacles.
Whatever it is I need to discover it in myself. I need to build those muscles so that the response to getting my dream becomes automatic. There is a reason that some people make $100 million a year. They aren't any different than me. They still eat, sleep, and breathe. They still get sick and will one day die. It doesn't matter how much money a person has, one day the guy dressed in all black WILL knock on the door.
So I am left with a perplexing puzzle to solve. And I have to do it quickly. Life doesn't wait for anyone. Make up your mind or don't, it doesn't matter. But the quality of life is what matters most I think. You can be rich or you can be poor. It's all up to you.
Hmmm....
What I mean is, I would probably starve to death if I had to rely on my ability to get out in the street and make money off of native talent or bullshitting skill. I could never run a confidence game or sell drugs. Whatever makes people able to do that, I never learned.
I bring this up because of the state that I currently find myself. In between jobs, with no money coming in. A sad state of affairs to be sure, but hardly unusual for present times. I am one of probably a million unemployed people across the country.
But the part that sucks and makes this harder for me to accept comes from the fact that I grew up in the projects. For 15 years I was surrounded by people who lived off of thier wits alone. Most were welfare mothers, hookers, drug dealers, pimps, drug addicts, and the occasional family who had just fallen on hard times and was trying to make things work the best way that they could.
These were people who could make a dollar last for what seemed like three months. Food stamps were traded for goods other than food. Bartering was a way of life, as was theft and the occasional beat down.
You might ask what I took away from all that? Honestly, nothing. Those were golden years for me. I remember my childhood as fairly happy. My mother made sure that we knew what to stay away from and who to be wary of. She kept us sheltered in some incredible way that only allowed a peripheral glimpse of what the world truly was.
It wasn't until I was 12 that I began to see the projects in its true light. And I think that the only reason I noticed was because I'd gone to Long Island to live with my father for two years. Long Island, Amityville to be exact (yes, that Amityville...) was a completely different world. People lived in houses. Actual houses that weren't directly attached to the neighbors house next door. They had yards and fences and garages and basements.
That I could see, no one was dealing drugs directly in front of our door or beating down his ho in the apartment above. In the projects at least once every few months the garbage house would mysteriously catch fire, merrily burning everyones rotting refuse along with half the building that it sat in. This was a problem becuase our apartment was pretty close by. In Amityville, no one ever set the garbage cans on fire just to see what the fire department would do.
So I spent two years hanging out with a group of kids that I could trust and who only once in a while got into fights, but nothing that ever involved knives or hot grits. I played handball on the back of the strip mall down from my fathers house and discovered a flowering sexuality with my 'girlfriend' Lisa.
Yeah, from 12 to 14 was a banner period. But as all things must, the time drew to a close and I decided that I didn't want to live so far away from my mother and my sisters. I wanted to be back home. The problem was, I had forgotten what home meant.
It meant going back to the projects. Granted, it also meant being around the people that I had grown up with and felt the closest to. Tyrone, Nelson, the Pachecos, and my 'brother' David. People I loved and had missed in the two years I'd been absent.
So my education in street continued for another year and a half before my mother got fed up with it and we moved out of New York and started what ultimately became my 'current' life.
But again, what did I take away with me? Nothing. Nothing of any substance. Lots of memories, but memories won't pay the bills.
I don't have the specialized bullshit knowledge to get out in the streets and hustle up dinner. I am stuffed into the thinking of a man who's best answer is to get a job for someone, despite the fact that I have at least 3 talents that I could get paid for.
I look at some of these 'celebrities' and I find myself wondering what separates me from them. It can't be the simple fact that they have a dream. I have a dream too, so that's no different.
I can't be that they have loads of money to begin with. Lots of them started by selling music out the back of thier cars. Some waited tables or slept on park benches. A few were homeless or worked for sorry ass American corporations before making it. So that isn't the answer. I've been through all of that, including being homeless with my wife and children.
So what's different? The urge to get out there and hustle every day until they get thier dream? The absolute unwillingness to follow a path that millions of Americans follow every day? The inability to quit no matter what life throws at them?
Or is it something more subtle. A desire to succeed that even they don't know they possess. Some innate will that drives them to greatness despite a billion obstacles.
Whatever it is I need to discover it in myself. I need to build those muscles so that the response to getting my dream becomes automatic. There is a reason that some people make $100 million a year. They aren't any different than me. They still eat, sleep, and breathe. They still get sick and will one day die. It doesn't matter how much money a person has, one day the guy dressed in all black WILL knock on the door.
So I am left with a perplexing puzzle to solve. And I have to do it quickly. Life doesn't wait for anyone. Make up your mind or don't, it doesn't matter. But the quality of life is what matters most I think. You can be rich or you can be poor. It's all up to you.
Hmmm....
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
More productive for someone else?
I have been in the 'working' world for more than 27 years. In that time I have worked for 10 companies. The experience ranges from youth coach to web consultant with desktop support thrown in just to keep it interesting. I have worked for city and county agencies, the federal government, private mom & pop companies, and corporate American. Know what they all had in common?
They never captured my imagination. I worked because I had to. I worked because I was supposed to. (Well, except for the coaching job. That one was fun.) I worked because at that time I didn’t know that I was free to create my own reality.
One of the absolute truths about humans is that you can't make them give you 100%. Especially if they are doing something that they have to do. I am no exception. How many jobs have you ever had that you gave all you had on a daily basis? For years?
I gave a lot of myself at first. I gave heart, emotion, energy, loyalty and most importantly I gave my time. (The only thing there isn't much of.) I trusted that what I was told was true, and I did my best to help add to the overall apparent facade of the company. I’ve told blatant lies to people to help toe the company line. I’ve had to correct the thinking of people who have been sold a bill of goods from sales reps who couldn’t care less if the product was needed.
And in all that time, I never really paid attention to how I felt about it.
Jimmy Buffett has a simple answer to the question of ‘What do you want to do with your life? In his book “A Pirate looks at Fifty” he states that after being raised in a fairly claustrophobic catholic school environment his answer was kind of a no-brainer. What kind of life did he want to live?
A pretty interesting one.
Okay, let’s back up and recap a bit. I have lived in Germany, Spain, Korea, and Honduras. I have eaten food that I couldn’t identify while sitting on the veranda of a restaurant in Costa Brava (wow, the sights on the beach in that place…). I have driven a 15 ton truck loaded with several million dollars of military hardware on a road as wide as a goat trail while insane South Koreans zipped their tiny little cars under me like I wouldn’t squash them to paste. And although I have never fired a weapon in anger at another human being, I know that under the right circumstances, my reaction would be instinctive and deadly.
While those events were wonderful and exciting while they were happening, they are in the past. It’s been any number of years since I have done real traveling. My jobs have been pretty sedentary and so limited in pay that traveling to the far corners of the Earth became a sick joke. That’s mostly my own fault. I accepted jobs that paid well, but had precious little else going for them. My fucked up desire to save everyone kept me in the customer service arena way past the point of sanity. Now, after 25 years of jobs answering calls from phone loads of people screaming at me, I won’t even touch the phone in my house. It could be two inches from my ear and I will ignore it. To be honest, I think that I could survive just fine without a phone at all. So long as I have email I am just fine. I don’t feel any pressing need to talk to people, but I do love to write.
I've written about a dozen short stories (or pieces of stories). I have 4 novels in various states of completetion. I have begun creating podcasts episodes of one and I'm struggling to finish another one before this years NaNoWriMo. Oh and I am doing NaNo again this year. I may not make it all the way through, but I intend to try. I've never stopped writing, but I have gotten in my own way so often its frightening. But one thing is very true, I have NEVER stopped believing that one day I would succeed.
It didn't stop me from putting my own dreams on hold on a dozen occasions. Jobs, kids, moving from state to state, a divorce, a marriage, alcohol, a brain aneurysm, accepting a bad job, quitting a bad job, falling off the back of a wrecker truck and bouncing off of my head - just a few of the events that I used as excuses to stop. And I do mean excuses. Despite the fact that I recognize my failings, I still do it on a regular basis. Excuses are easy, pages of text are hard...
So, all of that brings me back to my central point. Why is it that I was so willing to be productive for others and managed to spend the last 25 years ignoring my own needs? I’ve been told by those wiser than me in the ways of the world, that there’s nothing special about what’s happened to me over the years. ‘The Universe doesn’t care.’ was the mantra. While I understand and agree that the Universe doesn’t care, the knowledge doesn’t fill me with hope that giving all of my time to someone else is healthy or wise. In fact it makes me pretty sure that this is nothing less than a psychotic attempt to hide who I am from who I should be.
So far as I know we only get to go round this existence once. Since I am a fan of science fiction and fantasy novels, I tend to want to believe that things like reincarnation and living forever just might be possible. But lacking evidence I have to bow to conventional wisdom.
One go ‘round. Now that’s a truly scary concept. At some point along this time line there will be no more ‘me’. All that I knew will end.
I remember standing on my grandfathers’ grave more than 13 years ago and realizing that all that was left of the man who shaped a good portion of the good in me was a collection of bones, skin and bugs. The ‘man’ who taught me to pay attention to the world around me so that I wouldn’t miss anything was gone. It also occurred to me that despite what he taught me, everything that made up ‘him’ had gone with him and guess what sports fans…it will happen to me too.
I stood there on that little grass hill and had a fucking epiphany. Perhaps the logic is flawed, but it’s what went through my head. Nothing, and I mean nothing of who I am will survive me dying. It doesn’t matter how good of a job I do teaching my children to be decent human beings (who also know how to take care of themselves). It doesn’t matter if I pull my head of my ass and write 30 novels. In the end IT DOESN’T MATTER!
Cool, another case of The Universe Doesn’t Care. Okay, I can accept that. But as a living, breathing human being with an emotional and physical attachment to being alive, its shocking. Not cold water in the face shocking, more like ‘What the fuck!’ shocking.
It was that shock that got me to wondering why I seem to be unable to run my own business well enough to support my family. What in the world is left that is so much more important than my own ability to be honest to myself? What, I owe some employer more than I owe my wife or children? More than I owe myself? Fuck that.
I suppose that’s an answer in itself. It’s easier to put my own needs to the side in favor of someone else because it’s safer to deal with other peoples shit. I get to spend less time in my own head. Trust me, my head is a scary place filled with knives, daggers and other sharp objects. It’s not a comfy vacation spot.
Despite the disconnect that this way of thinking eventually leads to, it’s less taxing. Less emotion to have to deal with and to me that’s a good thing. I’ve never been comfortable with my own emotions. Thinking that and realizing how many people I know that flee to drugs and alcohol makes me realize that I’m not alone in this. I only know two people who are truly trying to make their lives measurably better by dealing with the programming that they’ve been dealt. They have made just enough progress to be considered abnormal by people who don’t know them.
The problem is, it took me years to end up like this, but I don't necessarily have years to fix it. If I ever want to get to Alaska, it's going to take a massive effort now. A complete retooling of who I am.
At least the answers are coming now. Maybe the tunnel isn’t quite as dark as I thought.
They never captured my imagination. I worked because I had to. I worked because I was supposed to. (Well, except for the coaching job. That one was fun.) I worked because at that time I didn’t know that I was free to create my own reality.
One of the absolute truths about humans is that you can't make them give you 100%. Especially if they are doing something that they have to do. I am no exception. How many jobs have you ever had that you gave all you had on a daily basis? For years?
I gave a lot of myself at first. I gave heart, emotion, energy, loyalty and most importantly I gave my time. (The only thing there isn't much of.) I trusted that what I was told was true, and I did my best to help add to the overall apparent facade of the company. I’ve told blatant lies to people to help toe the company line. I’ve had to correct the thinking of people who have been sold a bill of goods from sales reps who couldn’t care less if the product was needed.
And in all that time, I never really paid attention to how I felt about it.
Jimmy Buffett has a simple answer to the question of ‘What do you want to do with your life? In his book “A Pirate looks at Fifty” he states that after being raised in a fairly claustrophobic catholic school environment his answer was kind of a no-brainer. What kind of life did he want to live?
A pretty interesting one.
Okay, let’s back up and recap a bit. I have lived in Germany, Spain, Korea, and Honduras. I have eaten food that I couldn’t identify while sitting on the veranda of a restaurant in Costa Brava (wow, the sights on the beach in that place…). I have driven a 15 ton truck loaded with several million dollars of military hardware on a road as wide as a goat trail while insane South Koreans zipped their tiny little cars under me like I wouldn’t squash them to paste. And although I have never fired a weapon in anger at another human being, I know that under the right circumstances, my reaction would be instinctive and deadly.
While those events were wonderful and exciting while they were happening, they are in the past. It’s been any number of years since I have done real traveling. My jobs have been pretty sedentary and so limited in pay that traveling to the far corners of the Earth became a sick joke. That’s mostly my own fault. I accepted jobs that paid well, but had precious little else going for them. My fucked up desire to save everyone kept me in the customer service arena way past the point of sanity. Now, after 25 years of jobs answering calls from phone loads of people screaming at me, I won’t even touch the phone in my house. It could be two inches from my ear and I will ignore it. To be honest, I think that I could survive just fine without a phone at all. So long as I have email I am just fine. I don’t feel any pressing need to talk to people, but I do love to write.
I've written about a dozen short stories (or pieces of stories). I have 4 novels in various states of completetion. I have begun creating podcasts episodes of one and I'm struggling to finish another one before this years NaNoWriMo. Oh and I am doing NaNo again this year. I may not make it all the way through, but I intend to try. I've never stopped writing, but I have gotten in my own way so often its frightening. But one thing is very true, I have NEVER stopped believing that one day I would succeed.
It didn't stop me from putting my own dreams on hold on a dozen occasions. Jobs, kids, moving from state to state, a divorce, a marriage, alcohol, a brain aneurysm, accepting a bad job, quitting a bad job, falling off the back of a wrecker truck and bouncing off of my head - just a few of the events that I used as excuses to stop. And I do mean excuses. Despite the fact that I recognize my failings, I still do it on a regular basis. Excuses are easy, pages of text are hard...
So, all of that brings me back to my central point. Why is it that I was so willing to be productive for others and managed to spend the last 25 years ignoring my own needs? I’ve been told by those wiser than me in the ways of the world, that there’s nothing special about what’s happened to me over the years. ‘The Universe doesn’t care.’ was the mantra. While I understand and agree that the Universe doesn’t care, the knowledge doesn’t fill me with hope that giving all of my time to someone else is healthy or wise. In fact it makes me pretty sure that this is nothing less than a psychotic attempt to hide who I am from who I should be.
So far as I know we only get to go round this existence once. Since I am a fan of science fiction and fantasy novels, I tend to want to believe that things like reincarnation and living forever just might be possible. But lacking evidence I have to bow to conventional wisdom.
One go ‘round. Now that’s a truly scary concept. At some point along this time line there will be no more ‘me’. All that I knew will end.
I remember standing on my grandfathers’ grave more than 13 years ago and realizing that all that was left of the man who shaped a good portion of the good in me was a collection of bones, skin and bugs. The ‘man’ who taught me to pay attention to the world around me so that I wouldn’t miss anything was gone. It also occurred to me that despite what he taught me, everything that made up ‘him’ had gone with him and guess what sports fans…it will happen to me too.
I stood there on that little grass hill and had a fucking epiphany. Perhaps the logic is flawed, but it’s what went through my head. Nothing, and I mean nothing of who I am will survive me dying. It doesn’t matter how good of a job I do teaching my children to be decent human beings (who also know how to take care of themselves). It doesn’t matter if I pull my head of my ass and write 30 novels. In the end IT DOESN’T MATTER!
Cool, another case of The Universe Doesn’t Care. Okay, I can accept that. But as a living, breathing human being with an emotional and physical attachment to being alive, its shocking. Not cold water in the face shocking, more like ‘What the fuck!’ shocking.
It was that shock that got me to wondering why I seem to be unable to run my own business well enough to support my family. What in the world is left that is so much more important than my own ability to be honest to myself? What, I owe some employer more than I owe my wife or children? More than I owe myself? Fuck that.
I suppose that’s an answer in itself. It’s easier to put my own needs to the side in favor of someone else because it’s safer to deal with other peoples shit. I get to spend less time in my own head. Trust me, my head is a scary place filled with knives, daggers and other sharp objects. It’s not a comfy vacation spot.
Despite the disconnect that this way of thinking eventually leads to, it’s less taxing. Less emotion to have to deal with and to me that’s a good thing. I’ve never been comfortable with my own emotions. Thinking that and realizing how many people I know that flee to drugs and alcohol makes me realize that I’m not alone in this. I only know two people who are truly trying to make their lives measurably better by dealing with the programming that they’ve been dealt. They have made just enough progress to be considered abnormal by people who don’t know them.
The problem is, it took me years to end up like this, but I don't necessarily have years to fix it. If I ever want to get to Alaska, it's going to take a massive effort now. A complete retooling of who I am.
At least the answers are coming now. Maybe the tunnel isn’t quite as dark as I thought.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Not all who wander are lost...
Those who know me best are probably convinced that I am trying to live in the past. That is less than true, in fact, it's completely inaccurate.
My search isn't for the past. The reason I write these entries has less to do with reliving the past and everything to do with discovering my future.
I use the past as an acid test.
When I was younger I had much more interest in the true inner workings of the world. I studied history and science. I saw a great and wonderful pattern in the way that we humans, as a species, seemed to be able to overcome every adversity. It didn't matter if the problem was being worried about what might eat us when we left the cave, or if it was how to bake the perfect cookie. We always manage to find a way to get what we want.
And if you trust what you see in the movies, we are the greatest thing in creation.
Self centered? Yeah, I guess so. But until we find out if there is anyone else it kind of makes sense.
So anyway, I am using how I used to feel in the past as a barometer for what I feel now. There was a time when I was interested in being in the history books. Now I don't care.
More recently I wanted to start a company that would act as a business incubator for small to medium businesses for the southern part of Altanta Metro. Now I don't.
I used to want to have a radio show that dealt with issues in the black community in Portland. I even went so far as to create a 6 page proposal for the radio station general manager (anyone interested let me know and I'll post the proposal - yeah, I still have it after 10 years). Now I don't really care what happens in the black community. At least not like I did.
So the barometer jumps and twists like a snake with a hernia in the hot desert. The things that used to matter don't. Part of that is normal. As people grow and mature the things they want to do naturally change. But how does a person go from a caring individual to just not giving a fuck?
That's where I am today. Today my concerns are my mortgage and bills, the search for a new job, making sure my kids grow up into thinking, questioning adults. And that's it. There really isn't anything else.
Somewhere along the road of trials that is the last 16 years of life, I've put everything behind me. The problem is, I don't know if the shift in my thinking is natural or forced.
Okay, so suppose this is a natural, normal change. A sort of letting go of the things I held onto in order to create some kind of future. What does that imply about the things that I held onto and wanted? Does that mean that they never really mattered? Does it mean that they weren't important? Does it mean that they were wrong?
I really don't know.
The trip back home in August helped put a few things into perspective. I realized that Georgia doesn't have to be the end-all be-all of my life. Moving here was no different than moving to Florida in 1995, or all the moving that I did as a kid. This is just a place, like any other place and when I am ready (or fed up enough) I will move on. So that was a welcome relief. It was nice to realize that the rest of the world didn't suddenly cease to exist because I felt trapped here.
But the trip also opened a new can of worms. If Georgia wasn't my final stop and the Pacific Northwest is pretty much closed to me because of the steep rise in the cost of living, what does that leave me with? Where else could I go to be happy? If I am to stay married then Alaska is out. My wife has made it clear that she has no interest. California is too damned expensive. Florida is pretty nice, but the summers can be pretty damned intense. I'm not really interested in the interior of the country because it puts me too far away from the ocean.
So once again the barometer starts to twist and flex and I begin to realize that I really don't care anymore about where I live. One place is pretty much the same as any other. Sure the people and climate can be different, but rent is rent, gas is gas and jobs are scarce all over.
So, no I am not living in the past. That would be stupid. The past is dead, buried and over with. I can't help but think about it, but I realize that's a trap as well. Thinking about things that happened a long time ago tends to paint them with a patina of acceptability, as if things were actually better at some point in the past than they are now. With closer inspection I usually find that this is as far from the truth as it can be.
I suppose I will keep wandering. It's really the only thing I know how to do well. If I keep searching, maybe one day I will find the answer I seek.
My search isn't for the past. The reason I write these entries has less to do with reliving the past and everything to do with discovering my future.
I use the past as an acid test.
When I was younger I had much more interest in the true inner workings of the world. I studied history and science. I saw a great and wonderful pattern in the way that we humans, as a species, seemed to be able to overcome every adversity. It didn't matter if the problem was being worried about what might eat us when we left the cave, or if it was how to bake the perfect cookie. We always manage to find a way to get what we want.
And if you trust what you see in the movies, we are the greatest thing in creation.
Self centered? Yeah, I guess so. But until we find out if there is anyone else it kind of makes sense.
So anyway, I am using how I used to feel in the past as a barometer for what I feel now. There was a time when I was interested in being in the history books. Now I don't care.
More recently I wanted to start a company that would act as a business incubator for small to medium businesses for the southern part of Altanta Metro. Now I don't.
I used to want to have a radio show that dealt with issues in the black community in Portland. I even went so far as to create a 6 page proposal for the radio station general manager (anyone interested let me know and I'll post the proposal - yeah, I still have it after 10 years). Now I don't really care what happens in the black community. At least not like I did.
So the barometer jumps and twists like a snake with a hernia in the hot desert. The things that used to matter don't. Part of that is normal. As people grow and mature the things they want to do naturally change. But how does a person go from a caring individual to just not giving a fuck?
That's where I am today. Today my concerns are my mortgage and bills, the search for a new job, making sure my kids grow up into thinking, questioning adults. And that's it. There really isn't anything else.
Somewhere along the road of trials that is the last 16 years of life, I've put everything behind me. The problem is, I don't know if the shift in my thinking is natural or forced.
Okay, so suppose this is a natural, normal change. A sort of letting go of the things I held onto in order to create some kind of future. What does that imply about the things that I held onto and wanted? Does that mean that they never really mattered? Does it mean that they weren't important? Does it mean that they were wrong?
I really don't know.
The trip back home in August helped put a few things into perspective. I realized that Georgia doesn't have to be the end-all be-all of my life. Moving here was no different than moving to Florida in 1995, or all the moving that I did as a kid. This is just a place, like any other place and when I am ready (or fed up enough) I will move on. So that was a welcome relief. It was nice to realize that the rest of the world didn't suddenly cease to exist because I felt trapped here.
But the trip also opened a new can of worms. If Georgia wasn't my final stop and the Pacific Northwest is pretty much closed to me because of the steep rise in the cost of living, what does that leave me with? Where else could I go to be happy? If I am to stay married then Alaska is out. My wife has made it clear that she has no interest. California is too damned expensive. Florida is pretty nice, but the summers can be pretty damned intense. I'm not really interested in the interior of the country because it puts me too far away from the ocean.
So once again the barometer starts to twist and flex and I begin to realize that I really don't care anymore about where I live. One place is pretty much the same as any other. Sure the people and climate can be different, but rent is rent, gas is gas and jobs are scarce all over.
So, no I am not living in the past. That would be stupid. The past is dead, buried and over with. I can't help but think about it, but I realize that's a trap as well. Thinking about things that happened a long time ago tends to paint them with a patina of acceptability, as if things were actually better at some point in the past than they are now. With closer inspection I usually find that this is as far from the truth as it can be.
I suppose I will keep wandering. It's really the only thing I know how to do well. If I keep searching, maybe one day I will find the answer I seek.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Younger...and wiser
I found an article I wrote that proves I was smarter in 1998 than I am now...
When I first set pen to paper at the age of 12, the only intention I had was to try to tell a story like the kind I liked to read. I had no ulterior motive other than to pass some time, and maybe for once finish something that mattered to me. (More on that later)
If I'd been aware of the situation I was starting. I would have torn that story to shreds, burned it, and ran far away. It was 21 years ago and I still remember that the plot dealt with a little boy who felt that he had no home. I was living with my father at the time and despite it being at my request, I was feeling surly about being tossed between my parents like a chipped ping pong ball. The story was designed to tell about my feelings without actually mentioning my name. It was a valiant effort, and I might have even made it work, but my natural tendency made its first appearance. Half way to three quarters done, I simply stopped working on it I don't remember the specifics, but I do remember my stepmother asking me what happened to the story.
That was in 1976.
This is 1998 and two things are still prevalent in my writing world. I feel the need to write, and I have never truly finished much of what I start. That is not to say that I have not tried. I currently have two stories under consideration. I think they are okay, but even after 21 years. they are still the stories of a beginner.
Now I know that all of this sounds self pitying, but that is not my intention. What I am here to say is designed for those who want to write, have just started writing, or think that having quarter inch screws driven beneath their skull would be fun. (Stick with me here.)
With me, writing is more than a past time. it is a catharsis for the things that I feel inside that I could not express to anyone in any other way. It allows me to examine my beliefs on areas of my life that I don't or can't (read - won't) speak about.
I think that for most writers it is this way. Some authors write articles to speak on a subject that is near and dear to them. Sometimes it is to address a point that has rubbed them the wrong way. Some authors use their fiction to press home points about the way society allows it sell' to be run and the repercussions of a given action or inaction. Some authors wield their stories like blunt instruments, attempting to bludgeon away some silliness that they have encountered.
And then there is the small circle, of writers whose only goal is to entertain and of course, make lots of money.
For someone starting out, it can be a very frightening thing.
What at first seemed so easy and fluid to me, has changed into the one thing that scares me. Before and during High school, I used to come up with characters and situations and places and all sorts of weird implausible stuff. At that time it really didn't mean anything to me if the stories went anywhere, had a purpose, or for that mailer a plot. They were simply the things that my characters did on a daily basis. Sometimes it was a grand adventure to the far side of the universe, or sometimes it was just two guys tooling around in their hopped up space jalopy. A few times it was even a sage old Taiwanese named Saki telling stories to kids about the day that humans accidentally blew the atmosphere off of Earth.
The point is, the creation was easy and fun. The reality of writing salable stories is another world altogether.
Now don't get me wrong. Writing is fun. It's probably one of the most fun things you can do with your hands and not have to wash them afterwards. What I mean is, writing is probably the hardest thing that you can choose to do. I would suggest that if you decide to write for pay, the first thing that you should do is get in touch with your brain to verify that nothing is leaking. The second thing you should do is try real hard not to reinvent the wheel. What I mean is, there are lots of others out there who have the same dream that you do. And a few of them are even living it. Some are even making a few dollars! (There now I said it.)
Find one. Try to steal a few moments of their time to get the real low down on writing. If they are worth the paper they are paid with, they will be happy to sit down with you for a spell. Listen very carefully; you may learn something that you never knew.
Writing is real work.
It's not work like being a concrete pourer, or dental floss winding, but it is work. Work that will consume you like really bad chili heart burn. Your new writer friend will, if honest, tell you that writing is not an easy field to break into. They may even try to talk you out of it. It requires patience like only the Dali Llama possesses. It takes stamina, discipline, guts, and most of all, emotion. He or she will explain that good writing comes from your heart as well as your head. No one ever wrote a great story without giving up a small piece of their private heart. But remember, when you choose to do something, it should be all or nothing, otherwise the choice in invalid. Waffling never won anybody a Hugo. The only exceptions to this rule should be if you write for a time and realize, honestly realize that this was a bad choice for you. But that should only come after you have tried.
The cornered writer will also pass along tidbits of information that they have learned along the way. Take heed, most of these tidbits will be invaluable to you. Some of it will be the writers' personal prejudices. You must weigh what they tell you against what you want to achieve and what you are willing to sacrifice. And make no mistake; to be successful in any endeavor requires some sort of sacrifice. Don't think that just because it looks easy, that you can get away with half measures. Writing in general and the publishing world in particular do not operate that way. Always remember, there are hundreds of people who share your dream and are willing to work hard to achieve it.
After the pre-writing checkup and after cornering a professional like a rat in a maze comes the really hard part.
Fighting yourself to start and keep going.
I guarantee that this part is a killer. More wanna-be's dropped out from self inflicted emotional stab wounds than died in all of America's wars combined. Think I'm kidding? Just listen closely to the next conversation you hear at a party. At least one person will be bragging about how much he writes each day. At how fantastic a manuscript is that she has been working on.
The type is easy to pick out. They speak about writing, writers, books, publishers, agents, and book contracts as if they have the entire subject committed to memory. If you ask them for a sample, some will produce parts of articles or short stories. Some of the stories might even be pretty good, but the real author in the group will have sent the story to a publisher, correctly assuming that he might get some money for it.
The reason I know all of this to be true is because I am quite guilty of it myself. I have read more books on how to write, how to plot, how to create 'Queries guaranteed to sell!' than I can count. So I have a grasp on the technical side of writing. I even know a little about how book contracts are negotiated. (Talk about double migraines.)
I can talk a good game, but when it comes time to put up or shut up, well, let's just say my portfolio is pretty thin.
I never realized that this was a major problem that I had to deal with until I met my mentor, Steve Barnes.
For those who don't recognize the name, Steve is currently the only fully functioning, heterosexual, black, male science fiction writer in the United States. He has co-authored books with SF legends Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle. He has written episodes of the Twilight Zone and Baywatch (Hey, what the hell.) Plus he has over thirteen published novels of SF and Dark Fantasy. To say the least, he has been around the block once or twice.
I met him a year and a half ago at NorWesCon in Seattle. We spoke and became friends. Over the year that I have known him, my writing has improved by the simple fact that I am embarrassed that it was not better already. There is an old proverb that says when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. Well, I made short work of that one. The teacher popped up, but in typical fashion I was halfway down the street running the wrong way.
Anyway, over a period of time in which I called him every name in the book for being so damned smug, he began to get something through this brick shell that I call a head. Writing is like anything else in life. If you want it bad enough you will find a way to get it. What I really learned is that to be a good writer, you have to feel. You have to emote. You have to be willing and able to share that emotion with total strangers.
The people who are capable of that level of honesty are well rewarded. Just think of your favorite author. I'll bet that if you go back and carefully read some of what they have written, you will discover that the writer has revealed some part of his true nature and the way they he or she interprets the world. I can't stress this enough, no truly good writer can get away for long without revealing the truth that they may want to keep hidden.
I believe that it is human nature to share. It may not always be evident because there are a lot of selfish people, but for the most part people are willing to share at least portions of themselves with others. (Be kinda hard to make babies if we didn't…) To me, that is the essence of writing. In order for that sharing to be real and ultimately reciprocated, it must possess the givers heart.
When I wrote the article above I had only known Steve for about a year. At this point it's been more than 11 years and not much has changed. Old habits die hard. It took me moving to Georgia, away from everything I cared about to figure out that my problem with writing didn't have anything to do with my jobs or my location.
It had to do with who I was inside and what I was willing to share with others. It also has to do with the part of me that is convinced writing isn't real work. If I am not digging ditches or working in a cube farm somewhere, I am not truly 'working'.
I think that's what this blog is supposed to be about. I need to clear the old bullshit out of my head so that I can be who I was meant to be. Writing is in my blood, has been for as long as I can remember. Maybe if I write about it, I will work out the demons and make the connection with the child like intelligence that actually creates the stories.
It is my truest hope that I can convince him that I love him and I am listening. I also want to convince him that its okay to dream again. From the dreams come the stories. From the stories come the life that I feel I was truly meant to live.
Nothing good ever came of putting dreams on hold. I hope that working this out on 'paper' will help the damaged parts of me understand and overcome this.
When I first set pen to paper at the age of 12, the only intention I had was to try to tell a story like the kind I liked to read. I had no ulterior motive other than to pass some time, and maybe for once finish something that mattered to me. (More on that later)
If I'd been aware of the situation I was starting. I would have torn that story to shreds, burned it, and ran far away. It was 21 years ago and I still remember that the plot dealt with a little boy who felt that he had no home. I was living with my father at the time and despite it being at my request, I was feeling surly about being tossed between my parents like a chipped ping pong ball. The story was designed to tell about my feelings without actually mentioning my name. It was a valiant effort, and I might have even made it work, but my natural tendency made its first appearance. Half way to three quarters done, I simply stopped working on it I don't remember the specifics, but I do remember my stepmother asking me what happened to the story.
That was in 1976.
This is 1998 and two things are still prevalent in my writing world. I feel the need to write, and I have never truly finished much of what I start. That is not to say that I have not tried. I currently have two stories under consideration. I think they are okay, but even after 21 years. they are still the stories of a beginner.
Now I know that all of this sounds self pitying, but that is not my intention. What I am here to say is designed for those who want to write, have just started writing, or think that having quarter inch screws driven beneath their skull would be fun. (Stick with me here.)
With me, writing is more than a past time. it is a catharsis for the things that I feel inside that I could not express to anyone in any other way. It allows me to examine my beliefs on areas of my life that I don't or can't (read - won't) speak about.
I think that for most writers it is this way. Some authors write articles to speak on a subject that is near and dear to them. Sometimes it is to address a point that has rubbed them the wrong way. Some authors use their fiction to press home points about the way society allows it sell' to be run and the repercussions of a given action or inaction. Some authors wield their stories like blunt instruments, attempting to bludgeon away some silliness that they have encountered.
And then there is the small circle, of writers whose only goal is to entertain and of course, make lots of money.
For someone starting out, it can be a very frightening thing.
What at first seemed so easy and fluid to me, has changed into the one thing that scares me. Before and during High school, I used to come up with characters and situations and places and all sorts of weird implausible stuff. At that time it really didn't mean anything to me if the stories went anywhere, had a purpose, or for that mailer a plot. They were simply the things that my characters did on a daily basis. Sometimes it was a grand adventure to the far side of the universe, or sometimes it was just two guys tooling around in their hopped up space jalopy. A few times it was even a sage old Taiwanese named Saki telling stories to kids about the day that humans accidentally blew the atmosphere off of Earth.
The point is, the creation was easy and fun. The reality of writing salable stories is another world altogether.
Now don't get me wrong. Writing is fun. It's probably one of the most fun things you can do with your hands and not have to wash them afterwards. What I mean is, writing is probably the hardest thing that you can choose to do. I would suggest that if you decide to write for pay, the first thing that you should do is get in touch with your brain to verify that nothing is leaking. The second thing you should do is try real hard not to reinvent the wheel. What I mean is, there are lots of others out there who have the same dream that you do. And a few of them are even living it. Some are even making a few dollars! (There now I said it.)
Find one. Try to steal a few moments of their time to get the real low down on writing. If they are worth the paper they are paid with, they will be happy to sit down with you for a spell. Listen very carefully; you may learn something that you never knew.
Writing is real work.
It's not work like being a concrete pourer, or dental floss winding, but it is work. Work that will consume you like really bad chili heart burn. Your new writer friend will, if honest, tell you that writing is not an easy field to break into. They may even try to talk you out of it. It requires patience like only the Dali Llama possesses. It takes stamina, discipline, guts, and most of all, emotion. He or she will explain that good writing comes from your heart as well as your head. No one ever wrote a great story without giving up a small piece of their private heart. But remember, when you choose to do something, it should be all or nothing, otherwise the choice in invalid. Waffling never won anybody a Hugo. The only exceptions to this rule should be if you write for a time and realize, honestly realize that this was a bad choice for you. But that should only come after you have tried.
The cornered writer will also pass along tidbits of information that they have learned along the way. Take heed, most of these tidbits will be invaluable to you. Some of it will be the writers' personal prejudices. You must weigh what they tell you against what you want to achieve and what you are willing to sacrifice. And make no mistake; to be successful in any endeavor requires some sort of sacrifice. Don't think that just because it looks easy, that you can get away with half measures. Writing in general and the publishing world in particular do not operate that way. Always remember, there are hundreds of people who share your dream and are willing to work hard to achieve it.
After the pre-writing checkup and after cornering a professional like a rat in a maze comes the really hard part.
Fighting yourself to start and keep going.
I guarantee that this part is a killer. More wanna-be's dropped out from self inflicted emotional stab wounds than died in all of America's wars combined. Think I'm kidding? Just listen closely to the next conversation you hear at a party. At least one person will be bragging about how much he writes each day. At how fantastic a manuscript is that she has been working on.
The type is easy to pick out. They speak about writing, writers, books, publishers, agents, and book contracts as if they have the entire subject committed to memory. If you ask them for a sample, some will produce parts of articles or short stories. Some of the stories might even be pretty good, but the real author in the group will have sent the story to a publisher, correctly assuming that he might get some money for it.
The reason I know all of this to be true is because I am quite guilty of it myself. I have read more books on how to write, how to plot, how to create 'Queries guaranteed to sell!' than I can count. So I have a grasp on the technical side of writing. I even know a little about how book contracts are negotiated. (Talk about double migraines.)
I can talk a good game, but when it comes time to put up or shut up, well, let's just say my portfolio is pretty thin.
I never realized that this was a major problem that I had to deal with until I met my mentor, Steve Barnes.
For those who don't recognize the name, Steve is currently the only fully functioning, heterosexual, black, male science fiction writer in the United States. He has co-authored books with SF legends Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle. He has written episodes of the Twilight Zone and Baywatch (Hey, what the hell.) Plus he has over thirteen published novels of SF and Dark Fantasy. To say the least, he has been around the block once or twice.
I met him a year and a half ago at NorWesCon in Seattle. We spoke and became friends. Over the year that I have known him, my writing has improved by the simple fact that I am embarrassed that it was not better already. There is an old proverb that says when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. Well, I made short work of that one. The teacher popped up, but in typical fashion I was halfway down the street running the wrong way.
Anyway, over a period of time in which I called him every name in the book for being so damned smug, he began to get something through this brick shell that I call a head. Writing is like anything else in life. If you want it bad enough you will find a way to get it. What I really learned is that to be a good writer, you have to feel. You have to emote. You have to be willing and able to share that emotion with total strangers.
The people who are capable of that level of honesty are well rewarded. Just think of your favorite author. I'll bet that if you go back and carefully read some of what they have written, you will discover that the writer has revealed some part of his true nature and the way they he or she interprets the world. I can't stress this enough, no truly good writer can get away for long without revealing the truth that they may want to keep hidden.
I believe that it is human nature to share. It may not always be evident because there are a lot of selfish people, but for the most part people are willing to share at least portions of themselves with others. (Be kinda hard to make babies if we didn't…) To me, that is the essence of writing. In order for that sharing to be real and ultimately reciprocated, it must possess the givers heart.
When I wrote the article above I had only known Steve for about a year. At this point it's been more than 11 years and not much has changed. Old habits die hard. It took me moving to Georgia, away from everything I cared about to figure out that my problem with writing didn't have anything to do with my jobs or my location.
It had to do with who I was inside and what I was willing to share with others. It also has to do with the part of me that is convinced writing isn't real work. If I am not digging ditches or working in a cube farm somewhere, I am not truly 'working'.
I think that's what this blog is supposed to be about. I need to clear the old bullshit out of my head so that I can be who I was meant to be. Writing is in my blood, has been for as long as I can remember. Maybe if I write about it, I will work out the demons and make the connection with the child like intelligence that actually creates the stories.
It is my truest hope that I can convince him that I love him and I am listening. I also want to convince him that its okay to dream again. From the dreams come the stories. From the stories come the life that I feel I was truly meant to live.
Nothing good ever came of putting dreams on hold. I hope that working this out on 'paper' will help the damaged parts of me understand and overcome this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)