One of the reasons I started this blog was to instill in myself a more disciplined approach to writing than I have employed in the past. Although I have been writing all my life, starting with my first story when I was about six, I have never taken a serious, controlled - in short, disciplined - approach to it. A real writer, one who writes for the enjoyment of others, and especially one who dreams of getting paid for it some day, has to be dedicated and do it every day, like eating or brushing your teeth. You cannot call yourself a writer until you do it even when you don't really feel like it, or when you are uninspired, or when you can't find a single thing in your life that interests you, to say nothing of trying to make it interesting to someone else.
Historically, (if you can call a life that has only been lived for 48 years historical,) I have taken the hobby approach to writing; picking it up when something came bubbling up inside my head, saying whatever was on my mind, and then returning it to the closet until it comes boiling out again. While that does make the brief period when you begin writing easy, because you have a lot on your mind, it does not make you a better writer. On the contrary, you mostly say too much, instead of too little, because you know it won't last, and you have to say everything before you lose the mood.
Now I am forcing myself to write something every day, to produce a product, good, bad, or indifferent, and put it out there, regardless of whether it is perfect, merely decent, or outright awful (sorry about that, but it is what it is.) It has been an interesting experience so far, allowing people to see me at less than my very best, and being able to accept that something less than 100% perfection is adequate for the day. My own perfectionism has always been one of my biggest stumbling blocks, something that stands in my path, preventing success by short circuiting failure.
Recently, a friend gave me a book titled, The Underachiever's Manifesto by Ray Bennett. It is not, contrary to the title's implications, advocating failure. Instead, it encourages the reader in this success-manic and overworked culture, to relax and enjoy the journey, and to recognize that even unattractive people get married and live happily, people with C averages graduate from college and grow up to be president, and that money, the measure by which our society judges success, doesn't measure happiness, or the value of a person's life to those who are in it.
This is a mostly unwelcome perspective in a society that quantifies personal value by business title, and considers money to be the only grade by which a life is judged successful. If that doesn't define success, I think the workaholics worry, then what is the value of their lives, since they have sacrificed everything to reach that goal. But measured against that rubric, most of the great art, literature and music in the world would not have been considered worthy, and the purveyors would have been destitute. Well, okay, many of them were. But that is not the point. Creativity is rarely rewarded in our straight line, power driven society, unless you are ridiculously pretty, weigh 98 pounds, and your psychological problems outnumber your daily caloric intake.
Back in the heady days of the Renaissance, artists of all types had patrons, people of wealth and social standing who would sponsor an artist, supporting them, so that they could dedicate themselves to their craft, without having to worry about paying the bills. [I am wide open to that arrangement myself, if someone wants to pay me to write. So far, they are not standing in line to volunteer, but it could happen. I'm a dreamer.] That system worked brilliantly during those times of renewal and innovation, and without it, we would be missing many, if not most, of the great works of art, music, theater and literature which make up what we now recognize as "The Classics."
I am certainly not comparing myself to a daVinci, or a Michelangelo. Neither am I Shakespeare, or even Noel Coward. [No, I am not talking about someone afraid of Christmas. Definitely time to renew that library card.] But, as I have been telling my kids, who are now in the serious phase of trying to figure out what they want to be when they grow up, it's important to be able to admit what you are good at, in addition to recognizing what you are bad at, so that you have some direction in which to go with your life.
I have tried a number of occupations now, which has certainly narrowed down the list of things I might be good at. Or bad at. So I am well on my way to being a professional underachiever. I think it's safe to say I will never be a teacher, nor am I a very good accountant. I was a great at-home mom, I think, and I am a dedicated volunteer. I hate spending my life behind a desk, and go crazy having to answer phones eight hours a day.
I have two main talents, I think, which surfaced, as talents usually do, pretty early. I am musical, and I can write a fair story. Or a fairy story. Or a fairy tale, or better yet, a fractured fairy tale. Well, I think I can anyway. Certainly I can start one, although I seem to have a hard time finishing one, which is another story.
Speaking of other stories, the very first story I ever wrote was a true life account of the death of a deer. It had everything - violence, beauty, drama, and a tragic ending - to make it a best seller. Unfortunately, I could only make it three misspelled paragraphs long, so it didn't really make it into the book stores, although it did make it between the covers of my scrap book. But if you want to compete with Bambi, you have to have more than 300 words scribbled on a tablet in pencil, I guess.
I have actually published a thing or two, but nothing anyone has ever heard of. I produced one article for a professional journal on the topic of refugee migration patterns. I know, that's going to keep people up at night, waiting for it to come out in hardback. I have done a couple brief articles on things in which I have some interest, but nothing that would appeal to the masses and ultimately pay for more than dinner at McDonald's.
What is the roadblock, standing in the way of the pursuit of what seems, most obviously, to be the one thing I have going for me? Mostly, I guess, I have been afraid to jump, afraid the chute wouldn't open, and I'd crash into the trees and just hang there waiting for someone to come along and save me from myself. And no one would ever come. Which makes me a victim of my own fears, and a failure of my own making. Because I don't define failure in life as trying and not succeeding. Failure, to me, is being so afraid to fail that you never even try.
My daughter, some time ago in another life phase, called me a hypocrite. Harsh, yes, but possibly true, although not in the sense she meant at that angry moment. How can I, as a mother, encourage my children to reach for the stars when I spend my own lifetime trying to sneak under the covers and stay in bed? If I don't have the courage to pursue my own dreams, and to utilize my own abilities, then I have no legitimacy in telling them to recognize and pursue their own talents and dreams.
Unemployment has been a difficult thing for me, and I have certainly tried to find ways to support my kids and myself that will both use my talents and allow me to feel good about how I spend my days. I am about to embark on yet another effort, hopefully one that will be successful, and hopefully one that God will bless and reward. But if the worst happens, and I am not successful, I am glad to know that my kids have seen me try, that I have learned from my mistakes, and that failure, for them, will not be defined in not succeeding, but in failing to try at all.
And in the meantime, I will keep writing, because maybe someday my dreams really can come true. Although, as I have noted before, I am definitely not Cinderella, and I don't really believe in fairy tales any more.
