Personal Essay 4 – Success

I’ll be writing and posting Personal Essays on the last Tuesday of every month. They will be honest, sometimes vivid explorations of my life.

I’m writing them for two reasons: to help put my experiences in perspective and to purge myself of any residual compost.

Since it is good therapy, you are invited to join me, post your link in comments and I’ll be sure to drop by.

Let it begin:

I read somewhere that we should not measure success by what others deem successful, but what we determine instead. If we want to leave a mark to prove we were here, we need to decide what we want to be remembered for. One method is to write our own obit, listing our most important achievements and future goals. I’d like to be remembered for kindness toward others, my love of family and determination toward excellence, even in the smallest of projects. What is success to you?

We all have our own ideas. Some of us look at celebrities, and think popularity is what it is all about; maybe it’s creativity, upholding the law, or power. It’s different for all of us and it should be. As I’ve said once and will say again, we are as different as grains of sand and together we are something to behold. Being a Sagittarius, I aim an arrow, let it fly, plot a course after it, and follow it blindly.

Goals, dreams, successes are as individual as we are. So should we define, assign, and list what we would like people to remember about us? It would make our eulogist’s job easier. It might, but consider this–what others hear after we are gone might not be thought of as successful, and what we think of ourselves as we live and thrive might not be the mark we wish to leave behind?  A thought that might be wise to address while you can do something about it.

I’d like to be remembered for my pursuit of excellence, love of family and my kindness toward others. Sometimes my kindness doesn’t come across as such; a private truth shared may save another discomfort in future and may also be interpreted as a personal attack. I debate this when I’m offered a cold shoulder for my trouble and don’t mind being shunned if it saves that same person form letters, public humiliation, or harsh reviews, but what will I be remembered for? Probably not for my long career at the telephone company, or the list of jobs that followed afterward, or my settling down in my hometown, or caring for my family, or raising a good man. I’d like to think that these many things and others will be noted, but will they? All I can do is measure myself by my actions and know that being a good person, even with my list of failures, is enough.

Success should be as personal as our dreams. And I chase my dreams each day. Some, big and small, I’ve achieved and feel good about. Some others are tickling my fingertips, but I can’t quite reach them–yet. What amazes me is of all my dreams of success not one of them is about money. What about you?

Personal Essay 3 – O. F. Moments

I’ll be writing and posting Personal Essays on the last Tuesday of every month. They will be honest, sometimes vivid explorations of my life.

I’m writing them for two reasons: to help put my experiences in perspective and to purge myself of any residual compost.

Since it is good therapy, you are invited to join me, post your link in comments and I’ll be sure to drop by.

Let it begin:

When I was a kid there was always an Old Fart going on and on about the happenings “back in the day.” The young person, me, would hang their head because once an O.F. started it was near impossible to stop the diatribe. The other day the O.F. turned out to be me.  That wasn’t the worst part; the worst part was realizing my Old Fart status way too late; long after I walked to my car, I thought back on the glazed eyes I left in my wake. Why would I do that to anyone?

Weddings were when my grandfather would strike–I’d be enjoying the happy atmosphere, drinking a little, dancing, rejoicing–it was so festive all guards would be down. He’d wrap a friendly arm around me, have me sit awhile, and tell me about when he was young. Best intentions dancing in his wise sparkling eyes, his goal to prevent my pain or heartache, or encourage prosperity—whatever. I’d listen, forcing my attention on his concern and love for me while wishing, hoping, praying someone would save me. No one came and I swore I saw some snicker as they quickly walked by.

Knowing that trapped feeling and without thinking about my listeners, I shared in the dentist office–a kid was waiting with the receptionist at her counter, my victims didn’t have a chance as I commented that at my age I was running out of teeth. The young boy’s gaze landed hard on my mouth, his little wheels turning as he counted the teeth he could see. The poor little guy got a speech about when I was young–I’ll show mercy and not include the details. But that’s not all; no, I have to go into another little speech which included the receptionist. I noticed the glazed eyes as I pay my bill and wondered what was wrong with them.

It hit me when I got into my car. I stared out the window in disbelief, wanting to run back in to apologize and at the same time knowing they’d locked the door in self-defense. When I looked in the review mirror, meeting my own eyes, I didn’t think that I was old enough to tell “back in the day” stories, yet there I was in the aftermath of it all. The stories weren’t good, just advice badly disguised from an Old Fart. full of wisdom I don’t really have–Ahhhh. The shame of it all.

I don’t know when it happened, and have no excuse. One day I was living a happy young life and the next I’m dragging off my own young people to bore with… It is at moments like these I see my grandfather in a new light; the man was doing me a kindness, and I learned a lesson he may not have wanted to teach. Thanks to him I should know better than to force my on-high stories upon anyone, knowing this could save lives. I swear to be aware of my behavior from this moment on and stop–just stop; I’m doing again, aren’t I?

Hitting The Sweet Spot. No, It’s Not Erotica–It’s Writing

How to get there?

Start typing, and hold nothing back?

Yes, but there is more. I prepare, plan, deciding what my scene’s goal is, what does the protag’s want and how the antag going to interfer or stop him. Fact is, I work best when I’m working within a framework. It doesn’t have to be detailed but it does have to goals, conflict and sense of direction.

Don’t stop.

Think of it as wringing out a soaked cloth. I know what I need to write about. My framework is clear in my mind. Focusing on the scene, the beginning is all too easy. The cloth is damp and dripping, so wringing the water out takes little effort as the basics of what I want to say pour from me.

When it seems like I’ve written everything down, I find there is still water in the cloth. I need to squeeze harder, reach further to get every drop out. I don’t stop moving forward. No, not even if I go off the mark. Pausing only long enough to make a note: trying again. I’m back at it, starting again, or deepening the intensity.

The Sweet Spot

If it happens, it happens when I get in this zone. I feel like I’m getting into a white-water river raft. Here my writing surprises me, thrills me, and flows like water over river stone. All is see is the rushing water. I slow it down into a crystal clear moment in my mind’s eye and capture every last drop of my imagination.

I  zero in on faces, crawl into player’s heads and read their minds—feel their feelings. Rewind and play things again and again, but this time players say what they want to say. It’s something much more provocative/annoying/confrontational. They do it on their own. Somehow I’m gone and they’ve taken over.

It’s a rush.

The rush is worth it.

I’ve only hit this mindset a few times, but let me tell you there is no other place in the world I’d rather be. It’s alive, and I’m alive with it. It’s the source of all creativity. A place of freedom, of fearlessness, where there is nothing left to do, but let go.

And when the ride is over, the cloth is bone dry and I’m exhausted. It makes being human–wonderful, incredible; and being a writer the only profession for me.