About Me: Part Two

As I sit here at my computer, I’m conditionally writing this as a blog post.  I say conditionally, even to myself, since I’m unsure about whether or not it will even make it onto my blog.  Do you really want to hear what I have to say?  It isn’t pretty or kind or all puppies-and-kittens. 

Truth is, my life isn’t like that.  I suspect most lives aren’t, but I refuse to hide that fact.  More than once, I’ve received looks and comments—dealt behind closed doors when they thought I wasn’t listening— about my refusal to bury my feelings behind fake smiles and platitudes.  And more often than not, it brings me into conflict with others.  Those who don’t get “it.” Those who only want the superficial, despite what they say.  I’ve known countless fair-weather friends who don’t really want to know the reason you’ve withdrawn into yourself, no matter what they say. 

I won’t point fingers.  They’re scattered through all points of my life.  The fact still exists, however, no matter how much we’d love our problems to be covered up or ignored.  It’s especially hard on K and me.  We’ve met untold people who are positive, upbeat, and wonderful people who just don’t understand that we’re just not that way.  It worries me when I meet truly great people—kind, caring people who are just a simple joy to know—and we hit it off.  They want to spend time talking and getting to know each other.  Then, we slowly seem to turn them off ’cause we’re not like that.   

It’s lonely.

Recently, my wife asked me why it seems like she has no friends.  I ignored the question and changed the topic.  Why?  Because it was neither the time nor place to discuss it.  Truth is, it isn’t just her.  Both of us have issues keeping people close to us.  They see us having problems and withdrawing into ourselves—for sanity’s sake—and they assume that we’re angry at them.  Of course, they don’t consider asking us what’s wrong.  They only say, “Well, you could always come and talk to us.”  We don’t always want to talk.  We want our problems to go away.  If we’re doing this, then they obviously aren’t normal problems.  They are all–consuming, and we’re holding on by our fingernails. 

It’s the rare person who goes out of their way to ask.  But even then, nine times out of ten, I’ll still lie and say everything is all right.  It isn’t, but what good does it do?  I’m unsure about that point.  I’m pretty sure I suffer from textbook depression. It’s unconfirmed, but also hereditary in my family.  How can I explain to you that while the birds are singing, the sun is shining, and the world looks beautiful, I am miserable?  Most people can’t comprehend that.

But you want a sure way to piss off someone like me?  Just tell us to change our mood.  Tell us it’s all in our head, and, if we really wanted to, we could change the way we feel.  Act like it’s just a switch we have to flip and then—presto!—everything will be wonderful.

IT DOESN’T FUCKING WORK LIKE THAT PEOPLE! 

There is no switch, no magic button.  You think we haven’t tried?  You think we love being miserable?  Anyone who says they do—guess what? They’re lying.  We’ve just lived with the depression and the sadness and all those issues so long that we forget at times what it feels like to be happy, what having a smile on your face looks and feels like.  Happiness can seem almost mythical at times, like unicorns or dragons or some Disney fairytale character.  And the worst thing about saying that is, it reinforces the idea that we have the ability to fix it ourselves, to believe whatever we want to believe.  If we only tried hard enough, it would go away on its own; we should be able to handle our own problems with ease.  That misnomer has probably killed more people than it saves.  I struggle with that idea daily—that I should always be in control; I should be able to fix it myself . . .  if I only wished and focused hard enough.

Tell that to cancer.

A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh is fantastic in many ways:  beloved children’s book, fan-favorite Disney show.  But it’s also a fantastic character study.  You can label everyone you know by the characters in that book.  Your spouse is an Owl; your mother a Pooh.  That annoying guy at work?  Tigger.  Definitely a Tigger.  I am an Eeyore.  But here is the second part of the lesson.  Read the book, watch the show—whichever you prefer.   Here’s the thing.  Each character is unique, including Eeyore.  But never—NOT ONCE—do the others try to change who he is.  They still invite him along on their adventures, accepting their friend for who he is.  That’s a lesson for all of us.

Depression is an illness.  It isn’t a disease that can be cured with chemo or radiation.  It’ll always return.  We are stuck with this monkey for the rest of our lives.  It’s torture, plain and simple.  But we still try to move forward.  We just want you to be aware, to help us lift that burden on occasion.  Take us out for a beer, invite us over for lunch. 

Just. Say. Hello.

So when you talk to me and I don’t answer or only grunt, I’m not mad at you. Trust me, I’ll tell you when that happens.  Depression is like carrying several tons around with you daily.  You grow tired.  Sometimes we need to put the burden down for a bit.  Care when that happens.  Be worried when we have trouble lifting it again, because each time we have to, it gets harder.  Depression isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of being strong for too long. 

Trust me, I know.

Sorry I've been away.

It feels like forever since I wrote anything substantive here.  There’s plenty of reasons for that, but none worth going into.  Though I will say that a damaged finger doesn’t help matters any.  It’s doing better, though I will have a scar.  Most definitely a scar. 

Unfortunately, I don’t have 1500 words of wit or wisdom to pass on today.  Life’s been too heavy for that lately.  Instead, I give you my second miscellaneous blog post (the first one being my second or third post).  It’s just the odds and ends going through my mind right now.  And to start it all off, I give you—

Money:

Yes, the infamous denomination which makes the world turn.  It’s been getting to me lately.  To be more exact, though, it’s the lack thereof which is getting to me.  Not like I can’t deal with my current level of income.  I can.  But it wasn’t until recently that I understood what lenders meant when they called my debt-to-income ratio too high.  Oh God, is it!  Maybe this isn’t the place to be discussing it, but it’s on my mind, so it shows up here.  The good news is that I have a plan.

Many of you have probably heard of Dave Ramsey.  If you haven’t, look him up.  Your life will be better for it.  If you have, you should know where I am going with this.  Mr. Ramsey has a foolproof method for getting out of debt.  Or maybe not.  I’ve screwed it up once before, but that was on me, not him.  It is sound financial advice, which I suggest you consider.  The gist of it is this: work hard, apply your money to your debts smartly, and build financial wealth.  Oh, and don’t accrue more debt.  I fell short in a couple places.

But I’m back on it now.  It’s hard, but I’m more motivated than ever before.  So I’ve started selling my stuff on eBay.  I’ve got lots of it, so it can go.  Things are things, but peace of mind is more important to me right now.  Besides, I can always re-buy all of it later if I truly miss it.  I doubt I will.  

The Red Dress:

Well, despite my finger being injured, I’ve finished it.  My first novel, The Red Dress, is done.  Don’t be jealous.  Okay, you probably aren’t.  But I finished it last week.  Or it’s done until and unless I want to get a copy edit done on it.  I’m not sure I can do that—from both an impatience aspect and a financial one (see above).  Either way, it’s a great relief, to say the least.  I am done (for now) with Stephanie Hawthorne.

But this raises the next question:  what to do with it.  As my wife sees it, there are two options.  I can publish it or get smothered in my sleep for wasting all the time and money involved with the process.  I also see two options, but they are a tad bit different.   I could try to publish the novel through traditional means.  That would mean query letters, publishing companies, agents, more editors, and, I’m sure, more headaches before seeing it in print for the first time years from now.  The other option is to self-publish, which as anyone can tell you, has its own set of difficulties. 

I’m just not sure which one I’d prefer to crack my skull over.  It’s going to be a hard decision with a lot of work behind it, regardless of my choices.  The worst part about all of it is, I just want it done and out there and in your hot little hands.  

I’ll post an excerpt or two soon.

Writing:

So with the end of The Red Dress, I find myself free—free from that novel but with the desire to write something new.  All of us creative types know the joy that feeling brings.  And I’ve been planning on something for a while now.  Been world-building and planning out every little detail for the setting (I never plan out the plot.) for probably two or more years now.  Think of it as a cross between Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files and the movie Ocean’s Eleven.  Last week, I even started writing it. 

Then there was last night.  Actually, it was two nights ago.  And two nights ago from when I wrote these lines, not when you’re reading this.  What happened?  I’m glad you asked.  Stephanie FUCKING Hawthorne is what happened.  You want to know?  Let me tell you.

FYI, I feel like a late-night infomercial right now.  Heh.

So I go to bed.  It’s late.  I’m tired and asleep almost before my head hits the pillow.  But I did have two thoughts before I drifted off to La-La Land.  The first was a single line which I shall not mention here.  The other, mere milliseconds before I fell asleep, was: “That would make a great opening line for a Stephanie Hawthorne novel.”

Fast-forward to the next morning, when I wake up with the first chapter plotted out in my head. 

ARGH!!!!

As of right now, I am pretty solid on the first paragraph—as in, it’s scripted out in my head without me putting a single line on the page.  I mean, that’s good, right?  It is, but knowing me, by the end of the week, it’ll shove everything else aside.  Honestly, it’ll probably be tomorrow.

My Silence:

This one I can’t be as glib about.  As some of you who keep track know, I’ve kinda disappeared for a bit from the web, from this blog, and from Twitter.  Things have been hard for me professionally, personally, and in all matters of my life for the past month.  There are plenty of reasons for that.  For part of it, look above at the whole get-out-of-debt thing.  That gets to me a lot.  So do . . . other things.

I’ll try to be online more, but those other aspects of my life do take precedence.  My wife, my job—those win over everything else, including the writing I love so much.  Actually, truth be told, I’m getting the writing done at work during my lunch periods.

Yay for hour-long lunches!

But I promise to try.  Hopefully, we’ve turned a corner this week.  I’m looking for the end of the rainbow, that yellow brick road. 

Okay, some nights I’m just looking for a glass of wine.

Between Work and Sacrifice

Hi.

I’m back.

If you hadn’t noticed—and I bet most of you have—I’ve been sadly lacking in my blog posts for the past several weeks.  Six, to be precise.  That’s not something I’m particularly proud of.  Over these last weeks, I’ve had to make some sacrifices to stay sane.  Unfortunately, I decided to sacrifice the wrong thing.

You see, work—the thing that gave me a paycheck every other Friday—was dragging me down.  Stressing me out.  Something had to give, and I chose the writing.  Why?  Not because I wasn’t dedicated to my craft, but because I have responsibilities and the pay was good.  So I chose the thing that paid the bills, not what made me happy. 

Now, I sit here before you, unemployed.  I’ve been in many different states in my life, denial being the other one I’m particularly fond of.  Fond, of course, being used in a most sarcastic way.  Because, you see, I had myself fooled that this job was worth the time, effort, and sacrifice.  Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

That burns a little.  More than a little, if I’m to be honest.  I worked, sweated, cried, and sacrificed for nothing.  To make matters worse, I gave up all those things that make me who I am—my passions.  I became a robot and a fool.  No one likes to be made a fool of, even if it’s only in his own head.  There were days that I couldn’t make myself write more than a few lines or edit a page or two before stopping for the night.  Let’s forget about writing blog posts.

The thing was, I was all right with it.  My parents did a lot for me growing up.  The older I get, the more I learn they did for me.  That being said, one of those things they got through my thick skull was the importance of working hard, and, if you care enough for something, you sacrifice for it.  Before now, I’d been sacrificing everything for my writing.  I lost time with family and friends.  Money that could have been used for other things—some frivolous, some not—instead went to an editor or supplies.  Let’s not talk about my health.  But I was fine with it. 

You see, throughout my life, I’ve been smart enough to skate by.  As an adult, this isn’t something I’m proud of, but as a kid?  “Good enough” was, simply put, good enough.  But when things got hard, I stopped and gave up, moving on to other, easier things.  This bad habit has stuck with me into adulthood.  And even though I know I’m doing it, it’s hard to fight. 

Writing was one of the first things I didn’t stop doing when the going got tough.  I don’t know how many times I was knocked down, but each time I picked myself up and started at it again, pounding against that wall with fists, ink, or whatever else was available.  It’s made a difference.  Now, it’s a solace, a place of refuge.  I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

But I did.

That’s why it grinds so much.  I gave up a passion for a paycheck.  As a kid, way back when, I promised myself I’d never do that.  Yet, here as an adult . . . Yeah.

I betrayed myself.  I betrayed my family and friends.  I betrayed my dream.  The last is nearly impossible to live with.  So, despite my dreams, it feels blatantly wrong sitting here writing something for a blog when I have cover letters to type up.  What right do I have to spend my life enslaved to the written word if I’ll give it up, give up my dreams, at the promise of a paycheck?  Is any amount of money worth giving up your dreams?

I am a fan of trivia game shows.  For years, K has been trying to get me to sign up and get on one.  Various excuses have kept me away, the main one being pride.  Well, yesterday I had a realization forced upon me by a friend.  Pride only goes so far, and eventually you’ll be willing to sell it for the right price.  He pointed out to me that pride prevents me from going on a game show, but I’d do it if it meant my novel, my dream, would become a reality. 

And he’s right. 

Knowing the man, he’s probably the only person who could make me see it.  He’s sacrificed for a dream and now does what I want to do for a living.  Not running a comic store like he does, but rather making a living off my passion.  You will sacrifice so much if you’re able to do what you love for the rest of your life.  I don’t think anyone else could have made that connection and made me accept it as readily as he did.

If I’m to be honest, it makes a fatalistic sort of sense, too.  Everything since I took the first steps on The Red Dress has pointed my feet toward writing.  All roads lead to Rome.  Rome being writing.  I’ve met some great people doing this.  My friends and family are fully behind me.  Can I count the personal satisfaction and happiness, too?  Encouragement comes from too many directions to count.  It’s too late to give up.  I’m too caught up in it.  This is my life, and I only get one of those.

So I can’t feel guilty about it anymore.  I need to be focusing on this blog, editing The Red Dress, and writing the follow-up.  No, I can’t do it all the time.  I do need to find a job.  Cover letters need to be written, and bills need to be paid.  But all this feeling-bad-for-wasting-time nonsense has to go out the window.  This experience, if nothing else, has forced me to realize what’s important to me.  And while money’s nice, it sure as hell isn’t everything.  Peace of mind and happiness stack up for quite a bit.

It isn’t so much that I have to make amends for my time in the land of the misbegotten.  Rather, it’s another instance of picking yourself up after hardship, dusting yourself off, and going right back at it.  I never completely stopped writing, you see.  Just mostly.  And that was bad enough.  This was a learning experience.  Now I know what’s important.  Now I know what to sacrifice for.  And that’s just as important as the will and ability to give it all up for a greater cause.

I’ll never stop writing.  Not for the rest of my life.  But now, I’ll never let it get so far away, either.

Solace

At one point or another in our lives, each of us must choose something to find solace in.  Where we find that solace changes depending on the person.  Sometimes it’s an activity, sometimes it’s a hobby—all too often it’s a bottle.  My grandfather finds solace in his woodworking.  My mother in her needlepoint.  I really don’t know what my father does, but I’m sure he has something.  Myself, it’s this—the writing. 

Mind, if you could see me right now, all I’d need to finish the stereotypical-writer look would be the smoldering cigarette.  I sit in a nearly dark room, lit mostly by the computer screen.  A streetlight shines through an open window along with a faintly chill wind.  Melancholy music plays through computer speakers.  A tumbler of rum, uncut, sits to my left within easy access.  Rain pours outside, and I am lost in the thoughts that run through my head, the drumbeats echoing more on my soul than on the roof just above my head.

Bob Seger wrote one of the greatest songs ever about the life of a touring musician, “Turn the Page.”  In it, he writes about “the echoes of the amplifiers ringing in your head.”  The same goes for writers and their prose.  You can’t ever seem to let that go.  Words bounce around your skull like some sort of mouse amped up on both sugar and speed.  Those words are your saving grace when you’re seeking that solace.

Sometimes, without them, I don’t know what I’d do to stay sane.  It’s saved my marriage, kept me from staying inside that bottle when I crawl in to avoid the outside world, taught me ways to live that are not easily described, and allowed me to communicate with my fellow human beings when the spoken word has failed.  It’s no wonder that written communication has survived hurricanes, floods, tragedies of all kinds.  That no matter how much we try to ban the written word, to control its influence, it always backfires. 

I put this to you.  The written word has the ability to transcend you, me, and everyone.  To mold us into something greater than the parts of the whole.  Each word we write has the opportunity to become more.  We recognize that as a species.  For those of Faith, we find God in the written word.  For those not, we find something else, something just as spiritual. 

So what’s this have to do with solace?  Think about it and you’ll get it.  It’s a way of centering ourselves.  There are times when I wonder about the wisdom of this drink at my elbow, but I never once question the wisdom of why I write.  Does everything get published?  No.  But they are always the right words to soothe a troubled soul. 

It beats a bottle.  I’ve crawled into one of those before.  And crawled back out.  Not on a regular basis, but sad to say, I’ve experienced it.  Tonight’s one of those nights when I want to shut out the world around me.  Work.  Family.  Friends.  Television.  Everything. Just gone.  That’s why I love that I’m a lazy guy.  The glass holds a finger’s worth and the bottle’s downstairs.  And I won’t go downstairs again until tomorrow morning. 

But tonight I’m troubled.  I’ll admit it.  I’m questioning decisions and reactions, unsure if I’ve chosen the right path in my life.  Should I be more than I am?  Less?  Life gives you only so many bridges. Have I crossed all the right ones?  My thoughts are my own, these concerns overwhelming my thought processes for over a week now.  And I have no answers.  At least none that satisfy. 

So instead of trying for answers, I’m looking at a new path.  Just acceptance, for tonight at least.  To find solace in those things that I love with those people I love.  That’s why I’m here, in a dark room before a computer screen when I have books to read, video games to play, movies to watch, with a drink in my hand.  Peace. 

But now that drink’s gone, finished.  And with it, my time here.  K’s home and the rain’s stopped.  That wind has turned downright cold, and the window needs to be shut.  The cigarette never was.  “Turn the Page” has transitioned into “Her Strut.” The light turns on, diminishing the computer’s brightness, and a kiss is welcomed.  Not too long, but long enough.

Fade out.

About.......Me, I Suppose.

As I look back at all of my previous blog posts, I realize one overwhelming fact: I’ve never really introduced myself.  To be honest, those who know me best within the writing community I frequent don’t know me all that well.  That, in its own way, is a shame.  There’s a hurdle there, and while the rest of you are jumping them, I’m in the stands eating the world’s worst hamburger. 

All my life, I’ve craved attention of a sort.  I always wanted to be the funny guy in the classroom (I wasn’t).  I wanted to be the best at playing the trombone (Nope).  The smartest one around (Most definitely not).  Though I am good at those things, being the best eluded me.  Sadly enough, most of it was my own fault, as I refused to apply myself to anything remotely difficult. 

I’ve always been best at shooting myself in the foot.

So I developed an overactive sense of privacy.  A prime example of this is sharing my picture on the internet.  It’s a running gag between Susan Hughes (@hughesedits4u) and Rachael Ritchey (@rachaelritchey) about what I actually look like.  I’ve been most recently symbolized by my twitter profile picture—my foot—with a beard.  But when I was asked for my actual picture, I posted a rather dashing picture of Tom Hiddleston. 

I should go see a doctor about that.

.

If only I looked that good.

I didn’t post an actual picture of myself because I wasn’t comfortable with it.  Mostly because I’m not, and never have been, happy with how I look.  But I also did it because I found it amusing.  A dry sense of humor is something else I bring to the party—though I usually miss the party altogether. 

The thing is, my inhibition brings up a significant point.  If I’m putting myself out there for each of you to befriend, how can you respond or otherwise interact with me if you don’t know who I am?  And I WANT that interaction.  I love talking to people once I get past being shy.  And that’s really all it is.

Shyness.

So please forgive me, everyone, but I’m no longer in those stands.  I’ve left my hamburger behind (It didn’t taste all that good anyway.), and I’m now at the track. Please ignore those hurdles I miss as I face-plant into the dirt and mud.  I’m still going to attempt this.  I’ve got plenty to say and enough vanity to scream that I might have something worth hearing. 

So who am I?  My honest answer is to quote the Rolling Stones. 

“Hey! You! Get off my cloud.”

Damn, wrong song.  I was thinking more along the lines of “Sympathy for the Devil.”  But the problem with using that song is that after the first line, I’d claim to be “a man of wealth and taste.”  Well, the only part of that descriptive modifier that fits me is that I’m a man.  Or, if you ask K, more like an overgrown boy.  Not that I have any problem with that.  Life will age fast enough if you let it, so why rush the process? 

Obviously, I enjoy writing.  Maybe that was because my parents instilled in me a deep passion for the written word.  I devoured books as a kid.  Couldn’t get enough of them.  While my neighbors were busy with their Nintendo or pick-up baseball games, I lay under trees reading whatever I had at hand.  Libraries were my play parks.  But maybe I enjoyed writing because it was something I knew I could do—and do well, since I never stopped practicing the craft. 

How many stories did I craft as a kid?  I don’t know anyone who knows the actual count.  Do we count lying?  Because I was a bit too good at that.  All I do know was that my parents encouraged me to continue.  As I look back, there’s so much of them in me.  My father’s taste in music.  My mother’s ability to cook (when I want to focus on it).  There’s so much, it’s immeasurable.  They’re good people.

“And now I’m crying,” he says unabashedly.

I digress (See what I mean about avoiding myself as the topic?).  K and I are avid comic collectors.  There’s a whole room in our house in which we display our comic collection.  Everything from original artwork to statues to the comics themselves.  It’s what we do.  We have the gems of our collection, like the first appearance of Marvel’s Thor.  It’s something we do as a couple.  We love to attend comic conventions.  K dresses up as a mean Black Widow and has recently added a beautiful female Loki to her cosplay collection.   And yes, Loki was a female in the comics for a bit.

We own a lot of stuff.

Speaking of K, we’ve been together for quite a while.  We met while in high school—at a Boy Scout camp, of all things.  Best weekend of my life, but don’t tell her that (Love you, Dear!).  The rest has been twelve years of memories.  We were married almost five years ago and will be celebrating our anniversary later this month. 

What else to say?

There’s so much more.  Does education matter (two degrees)?  What about where I live (Indiana, USA)?  Siblings (one sister, three years my junior)?  Humor (Dry as a desert, but I love satire)?  There’s so much, but what’s relevant?  I guess the best answer I can give is ask and I will tell you what I can. 

I have opinions—we all do—that I’ll be sharing throughout the life of this blog.  But here’s the crux of the matter:  I also value discussion.  Strong , sound discussion is one of the simple joys of life.  I don’t have to convince you to change your point of view, nor you mine, but it should provide us the opportunity to expand our understanding of our fellow humans.  So respond to what I say.  If you disagree, tell me why, but do it intelligently.

Perhaps now I will open up.  There are events in my life that could prove difficult for you to understand without a base connection to me.  Last week, I received my novel back from its first professional edit.  Sure, you might be able to understand how that made you feel the first time, but me?  Without understanding my personality, it becomes much, much harder. 

As I wrap up this blog post, I feel as if I’ve already fallen on my face for the first time.  But I promised myself that I’d post this.  One of those things that needs to be done, whether you like doing it or not.  I’m sure more information about my personal life will leak out as time goes by.  Maybe in big swaths, maybe in tiny portions. 

But no matter what, each word will be exactly me.  I will be honest and heartfelt.  My passions will seep through:  pride in a refurbished desk (I love woodworking—runs in my family), or fixing a broken toilet, or repairing my Dodge Neon (over 260,000 miles and still running smoothly—or smoothly enough), and my other achievements—big and small.  No one else is going to do this for me.  Time for the big boy pants.  Though I still want my banana splits.

Had one yesterday.  It was delicious.

Failure is . . . Wait—What?

Lately, I've seen a lot of blog posts and articles about failure.  No matter what we do, everyone is aware of it.  It’s a constant risk, but one that we live with every day—in every aspect of our lives.  Should writing and publishing be any different?  The thing is, some people seem to be taking it to an extreme lately, including a blogger who expounded on the idea that “failure is our muse.”

Wait—What?

I hope you had the same reaction to this as I did.  It’s defeatist and makes no sense.  Talk about pessimism.  Have I ever experienced failure?  Oh God, yes.  Every time I try to run a mile, eat at Chili’s, or try to get a tan.  But calling failure my muse?  No.  I’m sorry, but if failure is your muse, then you are in the wrong fucking profession.

If that seems a bit harsh, think of it this way:  Does failure serve as inspiration for a surgeon whose patients die under his knife?  What about the mechanic whose newly-repaired cars blow up?  The architect who designs a house that collapses? 

The concept just doesn't fly with me.  It doesn't work.

Now, in the author’s defense, I understand what he was trying—but failing—to say.  Not muse, but motivation.  Dictionary.com (used since I can’t seem to find a copy of the OED without driving five hours) defines muse as verb meaning “to meditate on.”  There are other definitions as well, including “to comment thoughtfully or ruminate on” as well as the noun form of the word in reference to classical Greek mythology.  But not one of them means inspiration. 

I can’t think of a single instance when it is a good thing for anyone to meditate on failure.  Reflection?  That’s good.  We all need time to stop and look back on what we’ve done.  Time to see our path and correct our course.  But meditation implies a focus to the exclusion of everything else.  And where would hope and success be but with the all inclusive everything else? 

Ask a scientist what makes us human.  Depending on the field, the answer differs.  Opposable thumbs.  A developed brain.  The ability to create tools and adapt the environment to our needs rather than we to it.  Ask an artist, the answer differs just as much.  Ask yourself.  What makes us human?  For me, it’s a one-word answer:

Hope.

Sure, we’re the culmination of so many adaptations that it’s impossible to narrow down humanity—and what it means to be human—to just a single concept.  And I would agree with that.  I agree with the opposable thumbs and the concept of self.  But for me, hope is the single theme running through the lives of untold trillions who have walked this earth.  That’s why it’s such a terrible thing when someone loses hope.  And what is the antithesis of hope but failure?  Or at least musing on failure.

Honestly, I am no better than anyone else.  I muse over failure much more than I should—much more than is healthy.  It’s part of my psyche, embedded there like a rusted nail.   But I can’t let it rule my life.  None of us can. 

Using failure as a motivator?  Sure, I can understand that—saving that patient, building the perfect house, creating a better vehicle.  Writing the perfect sentence.  It won’t ever happen, but it’s a goal.  My goal. 

But hope isn't my muse.  That would prohibit my understanding of the darker sides of life.  I wrote a murder mystery, for crying out loud.  I need those aspects in my writing.  If I focused solely on hope, then the story might look something more like this:

“Who killed Andrea?”

“I don’t know.”

“Man, I hope she’s all right.”

Andrea sits up.  “I’m good.  It’s ok, (REDACTED), you didn’t have to shoot me.”

And everyone lives happily ever after.

That would sell a lot of books, wouldn’t it?  To be a writer (or anything beyond an automaton), you need to understand the many different facets of humanity.  We can’t just focus on hope, or failure, or charisma.  It simply doesn’t work.  Imagine a rainbow of just one color or a forest that’s slate grey in the fall.  The bark, the leaves, the plants and animals—all just grey.  Boring, right?

Instead, we must take everything as a whole and notice the subtle differences.  Like when each of us looks at a picture and sees a slightly different image. 

So sure.  Use failure.  To avoid doing so would only make you a failure.  Failure is how we learn.  But don’t let it rule your life.  Motivation I can get, but a muse?  Hell no.  Rather, I would argue to avoid muses; focus instead on the wide world of color around you.  Notice how it shifts and changes within each person at different times.  None of us are red all the time, but can flow into yellow or blue at a moment’s notice.  And don’t forget the subtle shading.  Is that sports car the same color as the apple you ate for lunch?  No.  And we are the same way.

Unless you’re two years old.  Then your apples and sports cars can be the same color. 

Gloriously so.