Few of us write great novels; all of us live them. — Mignon McLaughlin
I used to have a girlfriend back when I was a teenager who I would spend hours with talking on the phone, talking on the back steps, talking in school, talking while driving around town, talking while we walked, talking while we sat in the park staring at stars, and talking in notes and letters. Often, what we talked about was what we saw for ourselves inour lives. What we wanted to be. What we wanted to do. Where we wanted to live.Who we wanted to surround ourselves with. What we thought would make us happyand fulfilled.
Always, my visions and aspirations of what would mean the most to me circled around writing. I wanted to live in England and wash dishes by day so I could drink myself into oblivion by night with the fuel to write the great, great works of fiction of my time. Or making my way to the big city and landing a job that put me in the same company with rock stars who would come to know me by name, who would request me by name, who would respect my name. Or settling in a nearly abandoned town in the middle of a desert that was populated only with the small lot of fellow loners committed totheir given craft—painters and poets and me, the silent guy who spent his days alone writing great novels that would only be discovered upon his untimelydeath. Or living in an isolated cabin in the woods, writing haunting works about man’s inner workings that were so pioneering and revolutionary that he’d make people forget every notion on the subject that had been considered previously.
I was lucky very early on. I knew withcertainty as a teenager what it was that turned me on most. Writing. I liked to write. I liked writing anything. I liked words. I liked the idea of having a blank page sitting in front of me and being responsible for filling it up with something engaging and meaningful. On many late nights, I’d sit up in my bed deep into the night with a pen in one hand and a notebook of blank pages on my lap with the window wide open to the world coming to life in the darkness outside. The crickets would serenade anyone who bothered to listen. The whistles of the trains off in the distance would moan with all flavors of romanticism. Cars would sneak down the road in front of my house filled with bored kids just like me, all with no particular place to go and in no particular hurry to get there. And I'd write, line after line. Crossing out words and putting new ones in their place. Forging phrases and abandoning them just as quickly. Always writing.
If I close my eyes, I can put myself back in that room and surround myself with those pale-blue walls and my torn posters and the books on the dresser and the stereo in the corner. I love that room now for both for its simplicity and its promise. In so many ways, it’s where I was born and became who I am. It’s certainly where I learned that I loved to write and believed anything was possible due to writing. Therapy. Self-confidence. Expressions of love. Expressions of rage. New worlds. New meanings. Writing was the answer.
A funny thing happened along the way,though. I went down a completely different path. One I didn’t foresee, and one I didn’t really plan for. The path curved and swerved, but it didn’t lead me overseas or to big cities or the desert or woods. Eventually, I accepted that my chances of being a pioneer or friend to rock stars or being exulted upon my death probably weren’t great. Gradually, I accepted that I wasn’t bound for glory, whether it was to occur while I was living or dead. Living with the reality I’d never bask in waves of glory used to bother me. I guess I talked myself into believing that I was destined for great things and writing was the ticket.
The problem I now realize wasn’t that I believed I could achieve great things; the problem was how I defined “great things” in the first place. It’s taken a while, but I’ve learned that “great things” very often simply come about by doing the simple things. Great things are accomplished every day. I’ve learned that doing great things doesn’t take great abilities or great skills. Instead, doing and accomplishing great things just requires a great deal of caring. Further, I’ve learned that “great things” have little to do with yourself and almost everything to do with others.
This year, the greatest thing I did was open my eyes, and I did it through writing. By writing every day, I learned to see what is real vs. what I thought was real. I learned how very, very lucky I am, and how many “great things” I’m capable of doing on any given day-- just by doing. I’ve learned thatI have much to feel positive about. Much to feel gratitude for. I learned that I'm a very rich man. I possess many treasures, and I’ve become much wealthier than I ever thought possible.
All of this “I’m a better person now”stuff sounds corny, I know. The fact is I’m no “self-help” or “new age” devotee. Not by a long stretch. Ask anyone who really knows me. But damn it if there hasn’t been something remarkable about just being willing to look at the world in a new light. To let go of regret and self-loathing and the pessimism that can sink into your pores by living in this world year after year. In many ways, this is a horrible, disgusting, unforgiving, vile, cruel, and demented planet welive on. That’s undeniable. But damn it if this planet isn’t also populated bycountless people who step up day after day to do great things. That’sundeniable, as well. Great fathers and mothers. Great leaders. Great providers. Great thinkers and doers. Great children. Great planners and achievers. Great protectors. Great builders. Great movers and shakers. Great teachers. Great sharers. Great people who aim and seek to lift others up.
Good Lord, if the man who is writing these words now on Dec. 31, 2012 doesn’t feel infinitely more learned and wise than the one who existed on Dec. 31, 2011, if only for really grasping on to the concept of what being positive and being optimistic can do and by accepting and putting that concept into true, meaningful practice.
Good Lord, if the man who is writing these words now on Dec. 31, 2012 doesn’t feel infinitely more learned and wise than the one who existed on Dec. 31, 2011, if only for really grasping on to the concept of what being positive and being optimistic can do and by accepting and putting that concept into true, meaningful practice.
I’ve really loved bringing this blog to life. I didn’t know what to expect initially, and I never could have imagined what it gradually morphed into. I love what it helped me accomplish and see. I love how much it taught me about myself and about how I want to approach my years going forward. As strange as it seems, this blog helped me grow and expand in ways I’m still learning about every day, and it’s been worth every second that I’ve poured into it.
I never set out with the intention or the thought that other people would actually make a point to take time out of their days and read the words I wrote, but I’ve been touched and infinitely pleased they did. If you’re someone who read even one post, thank you so much. If you’re someone who inspired me (and there are so many who did) with your actions, words, memories, and how you approach life every day, thank you. I can’t express how much 2012 will continue to mean to me hereafter.
