Did I have what took to risk everything on the dream of becoming a real, honest-to-goodness author? That is, after all, what it was: a dream. My dream of course; but, still just a dream; and, what is a dream if not a wish wrapped in a chrysalis of hope? Wishing and hoping are such weak sisters. I almost regret having used them just now; almost, but not quite. The truth is, I had often wished (and hoped), as a young man that my words could make a difference in the world; that they I could reach out and capture the imagination of others, as mine had been captured by such notables as Dumas, Doyle, Bradbury and Rand. Was I willing to risk everything I had ever worked for, everything I had earned, to "become" what God had crafted me to be?
Yes.
I was.
But, as with most stories, my "hero" (get ready, I'm about to change tenses) didn't do it alone. He had help from a source he never expected; in a fashion he never have envisioned.
After leaving the US Coast Guard (where I served as an oceanographer/meteorologist on the USCGC Winnebago), I entered the workplace as, of all things, an insurance broker. What a mistake that was! A twenty five year mistake, as it turned out; and each day, a lifetime sentence on the fifth level of hell (I hope I'm not being obscure here). I really hated what I did, almost as much as what I had become: a pathetic supplicant constantly kowtowing to his life style and possessions. I wanted to leave, fantasized about it all the time; but, never did. I just grew morose and spiritually despondent, as I watched my life slip away into an ever-expanding grey morass of nothingness (an illusion that so permeated my thoughts, that I couldn't help but write it into my first novel). Even after I had chosen to dedicate myself to writing and becoming the author of my dreams, I was still inert; still incapable of that final act of defiance; still emotionally impaled on the horns of my dependency.
It was at this point that universe stepped in.
One of my co-workers, Bob, had taken ill. Actually, it was a lot more than just "ill". He was dying of a particularly nasty form of cancer . Our paths had crossed several times and at several houses over the years (something not uncommon in the brokerage community in New York), and I had come to respect him for the brilliant, honest and loyal man that he was.
Every morning I would walk into his office, share a cup of coffee and chat. It was difficult to watch that once powerful, decisive man sink day by day a little lower into his seat; and know that one day soon, that seat would be occupied by another. It was also difficult to hear the snide comments and caustic jibes that lesser men (I hesitate to call them colleagues) bantered between themselves about him and his condition. It made me sick to realize just how low and despicable the human animal could sink. Finally, after months of cellular corrosion and emotional trauma, my friend passed away.
At the wake, people did what people always do at times like that: they chatted about nonsense; tossed platitudes at the grieving widow; and, secretly thanked their stars that it was he, not they, with coins on his eyes.
As I stood there I realized one very important and life-changing thing: I didn't want to go to my grave without ever having lived; and, what I had been doing up to that point was surviving, not living. I didn't want people to gather around my lifeless body and say: "he was a good insurance man". That's like saying: "he was an acceptable slug"!
Through my friend, the universe has spoken to me. And, finally, I was willing and able to listen and act. The very next day I walked into my bosses office and quit. My future was now unsure, uncharted and completely in my own hands.
Thanks Bob.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
...the story continues...
... and, don't think that quitting wasn't an attractive option. After all, quitting (no matter how cleverly it's justified) is a prelude to failure; and, failure (in all its socially acceptable and personally redeemable guises) is the perfect place to hide from the rigors and demands of success. True, everyone claims they want success; but, when push comes to shove; and, they realize that once they have succeeded they have to keep succeeding, over and over again, until they do fail; they prefer the safe haven and comfortable anonymity of failure (or at least underachievement). Sorry. I didn't mean to climb on that soapbox. It's just that ever since I was a boy, I've been plagued by that particular demon; and, I've spent most of my life trying to exorcise it.
Enough of that. Let's get back to the "story"...
I just noticed that I never mentioned that Sharon thought I had talent, and invited me to join her writer's group (made up of other former student). I really enjoyed being part of a group of people who were, like me, all trying to channel their creative energies into works of fiction. I owe them a great deal. They, and of course Sharon, were very supportive and inspiring at a time when I needed both. Thank you guys!
So, there I was, sitting at the edge of the abyss. What was I to do? Well, as Nietzsche said (and I am paraphrasing here of course): if you stare into the face of the abyss long enough, it will eventually stare back at you. And, so it did. I realized that quitting was not an option; and that the people who had ignored (I say "ignored" because, as my inquiry letters were never even opened [let alone read], they couldn't actually have been "rejected") my work, were not the entire universe. In fact, it became clearly apparent to me that both they and their opinions, weren't any more important than I allowed them to be. True, the publishing community had the money and wherewithal to get my work out into the world; but, they weren't the only venue open to me.
I could do it on my own; but, did I have what it took to make that happen?
Enough of that. Let's get back to the "story"...
I just noticed that I never mentioned that Sharon thought I had talent, and invited me to join her writer's group (made up of other former student). I really enjoyed being part of a group of people who were, like me, all trying to channel their creative energies into works of fiction. I owe them a great deal. They, and of course Sharon, were very supportive and inspiring at a time when I needed both. Thank you guys!
So, there I was, sitting at the edge of the abyss. What was I to do? Well, as Nietzsche said (and I am paraphrasing here of course): if you stare into the face of the abyss long enough, it will eventually stare back at you. And, so it did. I realized that quitting was not an option; and that the people who had ignored (I say "ignored" because, as my inquiry letters were never even opened [let alone read], they couldn't actually have been "rejected") my work, were not the entire universe. In fact, it became clearly apparent to me that both they and their opinions, weren't any more important than I allowed them to be. True, the publishing community had the money and wherewithal to get my work out into the world; but, they weren't the only venue open to me.
I could do it on my own; but, did I have what it took to make that happen?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
... and so it begins
When I was a boy I read a book by Dr. Seuss entitled: "And to think that I saw it on Mulberry Street". What a great book. It laid out in the most engaging terms the simplest and most obvious fact of human existence: we are a story telling animal. We can't help ourselves. It's what we do. Life occurs and we make up stories about it (and, in many cases call our interpretations of reality: facts). Well, that being said, this is my story...
Many years ago, when my son Jason (who now has sons of his own) and I would take long drives, I would make up stories about an imaginary hero whose life perils oddly enough mirrored his own (though far more dramatically and with greater flourish). The older Jason got and the more complex his universe became the more our hero had to endure; but, in true heroic fashion, he never complained (at least he never complained to me) and grew into a person both Jason and I came to know very well.
As time moved on (as it has a nasty habit of doing) Jason kept prodding me into putting one or two of of those stories into print (more for our own use than for publication). Not being one to ever want to disappoint my best friend, I agreed; and so, the Galanor Saga was born.
Of course, I had never attempted anything like that before (let's face it, writing a novel is something that only truly "gifted" people do; and, I was just a regular guy with about a thousand ideas and head full of words), so I took an adult-ed course at a local community college in how to become (and here of course I'm being completely frivolous) a world-class novelist. I never expected to learn nearly as much as I did; but, Sharon was an excellent teacher. She guided my enthusiasm into the proper channels to turn raw concept into finely crafted (and here of course I'm puffing) fiction.
After a year and a half of work, I produced my finished manuscript. I loved it! And, why not, it was mine and it was brilliant. Of course, I expected the entire publishing world to agree with me; and, so sent out my first batch of inquiry letters with eager and undaunted confidence in my bright future.
What was I thinking? What manner of hubris had infected me while I was writing my "masterpiece"? The world was not waiting for my words to grace the lives of its millions; publishers were not sitting around in high anticipation of my work; and, the universe was going to keep on going as it had for billions of years in complete ignorance of my genius.
To put it bluntly, I began to receive what was to become a constant and mind-jarringly horrendous flow of rejection letters.
I had entered the "real" world of publishing.
For two years I tried everything I could to get someone to at least open my submissions before returning them as rejected. Nothing worked. I began to lose heart. I was about to quit.
Many years ago, when my son Jason (who now has sons of his own) and I would take long drives, I would make up stories about an imaginary hero whose life perils oddly enough mirrored his own (though far more dramatically and with greater flourish). The older Jason got and the more complex his universe became the more our hero had to endure; but, in true heroic fashion, he never complained (at least he never complained to me) and grew into a person both Jason and I came to know very well.
As time moved on (as it has a nasty habit of doing) Jason kept prodding me into putting one or two of of those stories into print (more for our own use than for publication). Not being one to ever want to disappoint my best friend, I agreed; and so, the Galanor Saga was born.
Of course, I had never attempted anything like that before (let's face it, writing a novel is something that only truly "gifted" people do; and, I was just a regular guy with about a thousand ideas and head full of words), so I took an adult-ed course at a local community college in how to become (and here of course I'm being completely frivolous) a world-class novelist. I never expected to learn nearly as much as I did; but, Sharon was an excellent teacher. She guided my enthusiasm into the proper channels to turn raw concept into finely crafted (and here of course I'm puffing) fiction.
After a year and a half of work, I produced my finished manuscript. I loved it! And, why not, it was mine and it was brilliant. Of course, I expected the entire publishing world to agree with me; and, so sent out my first batch of inquiry letters with eager and undaunted confidence in my bright future.
What was I thinking? What manner of hubris had infected me while I was writing my "masterpiece"? The world was not waiting for my words to grace the lives of its millions; publishers were not sitting around in high anticipation of my work; and, the universe was going to keep on going as it had for billions of years in complete ignorance of my genius.
To put it bluntly, I began to receive what was to become a constant and mind-jarringly horrendous flow of rejection letters.
I had entered the "real" world of publishing.
For two years I tried everything I could to get someone to at least open my submissions before returning them as rejected. Nothing worked. I began to lose heart. I was about to quit.
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