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Saturday, August 29, 2015
Begin, and Begin Again
When I tell people that I love to write fiction, occasionally they ask me how I got started. I think what interests most of them is how I first sold a story, but I started writing years before that ever happened, long before I ever got anything published. The beginning, I think, isn't the interesting part of that story. To me, since I've loved writing as long as I can remember, the noteworthy events led to realizing what about writing made me so happy that I embraced something terrifying: the prospect of releasing something I created to be judged by others.
There's this magical moment when I finish writing something, when I experience a sense of pride, looking at a completed piece of fiction or poem. "This is the best work I've ever done," I tell myself. Phantasmal rose petals fall at my feet to the sound of tumultuous applause. In reality, the sound is just lingering water in my ears after my shower. Within days, sometimes minutes, I revisit the work and wonder how I could've been so wrong. It's not even close to good, I realize, but it's got a beginning, a middle, and an end, which means I followed through and didn't give up on it. Once edited, some of those things stuck in my mind as better than others, and I shared a scant few of them with friends. That was the first step, because those were the people who would generally be the most supportive of any readers. But I knew, deep down, that showing my stories to my mom or good friends wasn't really much like overcoming real fear of rejection. It was more like risking rejection of my suggestion for a place to eat or a movie to watch.
On to step 2: sharing my writing with other writers. This first took shape in a writing group on Yahoo, about a dozen of us all writing speculative fiction. Again, I played it too safe. By mutual agreement, the group was a supportive environment, heavy with general praise and light on constructive criticism. Everybody was nice, possibly too considerate and sympathetic to fears of rejection and hurt pride. I had to read between the lines of the critiques I received, trying find hints of things disliked or general disinterest in the stories. There weren't even any grammar Nazis to belittle my punctuation errors. At that point, I realized that I wasn't really getting anywhere as a writer. I needed to experience some growing pains, if I ever wanted to be able to see over the walls of my safe zone, the place where I wrote things that nobody would ever pay to read.
Somewhere around the dissolution of the writing group, I knew I had to take a more committed leap. My fear of rejection was still prevalent. In the end, I made a kind of strategy to combat it. I stopped trying to write what I thought people would like to read and promised myself I would write what I loved. No more pretentious attempts at literature, strictly genre fiction of the kinds I enjoyed reading. No more inflated language and attempts to sound enlightened, just my own voice, telling tales the way I would narrate a ghost story around the campfire. If I was about to send fiction out to be rejected by publishers, I was going to send little pieces of myself. I had to keep reminding myself that they wouldn't be rejecting me, just the way I wrote. It can still be heartbreaking when it happens, at least initially before I hunker down to more editing. Some pieces just need to be mourned and tucked away.
I'm better for the experience, rejections or not. I feel that the true start of my writing career began when I made that promise to myself and took that leap to submit my pieces. How did I get started writing? That happened a long time ago. How did I become a writer? That's a tale in itself, one of heartbreak, growth, and carpal tunnel syndrome. It's also kind of long, so make sure you use the bathroom and grab a snack before I get started.
There's this magical moment when I finish writing something, when I experience a sense of pride, looking at a completed piece of fiction or poem. "This is the best work I've ever done," I tell myself. Phantasmal rose petals fall at my feet to the sound of tumultuous applause. In reality, the sound is just lingering water in my ears after my shower. Within days, sometimes minutes, I revisit the work and wonder how I could've been so wrong. It's not even close to good, I realize, but it's got a beginning, a middle, and an end, which means I followed through and didn't give up on it. Once edited, some of those things stuck in my mind as better than others, and I shared a scant few of them with friends. That was the first step, because those were the people who would generally be the most supportive of any readers. But I knew, deep down, that showing my stories to my mom or good friends wasn't really much like overcoming real fear of rejection. It was more like risking rejection of my suggestion for a place to eat or a movie to watch.
On to step 2: sharing my writing with other writers. This first took shape in a writing group on Yahoo, about a dozen of us all writing speculative fiction. Again, I played it too safe. By mutual agreement, the group was a supportive environment, heavy with general praise and light on constructive criticism. Everybody was nice, possibly too considerate and sympathetic to fears of rejection and hurt pride. I had to read between the lines of the critiques I received, trying find hints of things disliked or general disinterest in the stories. There weren't even any grammar Nazis to belittle my punctuation errors. At that point, I realized that I wasn't really getting anywhere as a writer. I needed to experience some growing pains, if I ever wanted to be able to see over the walls of my safe zone, the place where I wrote things that nobody would ever pay to read.
Somewhere around the dissolution of the writing group, I knew I had to take a more committed leap. My fear of rejection was still prevalent. In the end, I made a kind of strategy to combat it. I stopped trying to write what I thought people would like to read and promised myself I would write what I loved. No more pretentious attempts at literature, strictly genre fiction of the kinds I enjoyed reading. No more inflated language and attempts to sound enlightened, just my own voice, telling tales the way I would narrate a ghost story around the campfire. If I was about to send fiction out to be rejected by publishers, I was going to send little pieces of myself. I had to keep reminding myself that they wouldn't be rejecting me, just the way I wrote. It can still be heartbreaking when it happens, at least initially before I hunker down to more editing. Some pieces just need to be mourned and tucked away.
I'm better for the experience, rejections or not. I feel that the true start of my writing career began when I made that promise to myself and took that leap to submit my pieces. How did I get started writing? That happened a long time ago. How did I become a writer? That's a tale in itself, one of heartbreak, growth, and carpal tunnel syndrome. It's also kind of long, so make sure you use the bathroom and grab a snack before I get started.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Zombie Good, Zombie Bad, Zombie Meh
I've been craving zombie stories lately, maybe because I've been working on some zombie fiction of my own. It seems like a genre where the products often are either spectacular or downright awful. Recently I partook of three different stories, a movie, a novel, and a TV show, with mixed results.
A movie called "Wyrmwood: Road of the Dead", I watched on Netflix, completely surprised me, even though it held a solid 4-star rating. The rating caught my attention, since it's so rare to see a zombie movie that receives such unanimous praise (and I've looked). The quality of the movie's writing, actors, and production value wasn't the only surprise that made it especially enjoyable. There were a couple of notable twists to the typical zombie lore that invigorated the story and further endeared it to me. What's more, I normally dislike the attempts to inject humor into zombie movies, the exceptions being Zombieland and Shaun of the Dead. Wyrmwood's humor hit home without pushing the envelope and ruining the movie for me, though there were times when I felt there should be a bit more grief expressed at the passing of some characters. As testament to how enamored I was with the movie, I placed it on my viewing queue AFTER I finished it, so I could easily find it to watch again.
I attempted to read the novel "Dead City", by Joe McKinney, for a second time, and though I read more of it than I had previously, I still couldn't be tempted to finish it. I really wanted to like it, so I gave it a second chance, something I rarely do. I couldn't remember what made me stop reading the first time. Sometimes I just find a book that really excites me after starting another, and I thought that might have been the case with Dead City, my first attempt only progressing to the third chapter or so. Unlike the humor in Wyrmwood, Dead City's seemed strained, like an strategically employed device that consistently fell short. Even though there was an interesting twist to the zombie outbreak, the characters didn't develop that way I thought they should to justify expending more effort on it. I think I pushed on past the point where some of the minor characters became annoyances, hoping a new plot twist or aspect of character growth would compel me to continue. Unfortunately, I felt only like I wasted too much of my time, hours I could have spent reading something better, or watching Wyrmwood again.
The first episode of Fear the Walking Dead premiered last night, and I intentionally avoided any of the previews and specials leading up to it, to maximize my anticipation and potential for surprises. Since The Walking Dead exceeded my expectations on so many levels, it might not be fair to compare the two. The bar was set exceptionally high. The Walking Dead hooked me from the very first episode, and Fear the Walking Dead failed to duplicate the feeling. The premier started very slowly, but I expect it to pick up in the future episodes. After all, the very premise is to present the descent from normal society into a zombie apocalypse, and the viewers need a benchmark to see how far and how quickly society falls into chaos. A short preview of upcoming events promised to plummet the characters into appropriately horrible circumstances, even as an attempt is made to maintain order that we know will crumble before the onslaught of the ravenous dead. I know it will bring me goosebumps, tears, and excitement in future episodes, but I expected a better opener in light of the excellence displayed by its predecessor.
Overall, my zombie-related distractions over the past few days have been well worth my time. Even Dead City held some enjoyment. Perhaps The Walking Dead has just elevated my standards too much. I'd love to hear what you think in the comments section below.
Friday, August 21, 2015
When I Don't Feel Like Writing
Sometimes I don't feel like writing, even though it's how I love to spend my spare time. That sounds contradictory, but there's a lot to it. It's 11PM, and I'm brain-dead tired. I've worked all day, helped with homework, cooked, cleaned, exercised, and prepared for the following day, which will begin before dawn. I usually look back at my day and ask myself how many words I wrote, knowing the answer will be less than what I wanted to accomplish. I wonder, for about 30 seconds, why I can't squeeze out a few more paragraphs before I finally sleep. Then my alarm clock is buzzing its infernal song.
Since I've started actively pursuing a writing career, I've come in contact with communities of other writers. A lot of them work and have family responsibilities, just like me. The difference is that they seem to have finished multiple books, find time to promote their works, and still continue working on new projects. When do they sleep? Some likely don't. Most power through their days and continue writing once they're back home from their jobs. One has written a book about writing novels in 10-minute intervals each day. (Note to self: buy that sucker.)
The struggle to find time to write prevented me from seriously writing anything for a long time. Once my son got older, I found more free time; however, I filled that free time with things other than writing: TV, video games, reading, napping. The fight was over, and it felt great to just relax, catch up on sleep, and vegetate. Writing was hard enough back when I had hours to do it and think about it in quiet solitude. Scrambling to find a few minutes here and there, to jot some things down in a notebook, was not how I envisioned writing to be for me. It made writing a chore, one more thing to try to fit into my day before sweet oblivion pulled me into my pillow. I didn't look forward to the creative process, the fulfillment of my ideas, or even the grueling editing like I used to.
Then something happened. It wasn't miraculous or inspiring. It wasn't even an original idea. I made myself write. I started with my lunch break at work, realizing that I had nearly an hour of writing time if I brought lunch from home and could write while chewing. I eased into it, writing whatever came to mind, sometimes not finishing anything. I just wrote like scratching words on paper was going to diffuse a bomb before the end of my lunch hour. It was desperate, frantic, exhilarating. It became a craving every day, more necessary than my food on occasion. I could type it when I got home, in the brain-dead evening hours, and in 15-minute intervals. I could puzzle out difficult plot points during my commutes and commit them to memory until I could write them down.
Occasionally, like today, I've had a fairly quiet house to myself. Today has been very productive on the writing front, but there have been days of free time when I haven't written a word. Even though I knew I would kick myself when it was over for wasting a whole day, why couldn't I get any writing done? Sometimes when I don't feel like writing, I really should just listen to that feeling. It takes some introspection, to know if I'm being lazy or if I'm going to spin my wheels, without accomplishing anything other than frustration. Giving myself leave to watch a movie or waste a couple of hours on the game console can be productive for my writing. It's energizing, and it can enable me to let go of my day job or other stresses, so my mind can stumble its way back into a creative mode again.
That desire to write isn't every really absent. Sometimes it's just hidden amidst the clutter of other stuff in my mind. Often it's waiting impatiently to be freed from the weight of distractions, by indulging in more stimulating activities, many that people find to be distractions themselves. I really always want to write, even when I feel like I can't, and sometimes forcing the writing is counterproductive.
Since I've started actively pursuing a writing career, I've come in contact with communities of other writers. A lot of them work and have family responsibilities, just like me. The difference is that they seem to have finished multiple books, find time to promote their works, and still continue working on new projects. When do they sleep? Some likely don't. Most power through their days and continue writing once they're back home from their jobs. One has written a book about writing novels in 10-minute intervals each day. (Note to self: buy that sucker.)
The struggle to find time to write prevented me from seriously writing anything for a long time. Once my son got older, I found more free time; however, I filled that free time with things other than writing: TV, video games, reading, napping. The fight was over, and it felt great to just relax, catch up on sleep, and vegetate. Writing was hard enough back when I had hours to do it and think about it in quiet solitude. Scrambling to find a few minutes here and there, to jot some things down in a notebook, was not how I envisioned writing to be for me. It made writing a chore, one more thing to try to fit into my day before sweet oblivion pulled me into my pillow. I didn't look forward to the creative process, the fulfillment of my ideas, or even the grueling editing like I used to.
Then something happened. It wasn't miraculous or inspiring. It wasn't even an original idea. I made myself write. I started with my lunch break at work, realizing that I had nearly an hour of writing time if I brought lunch from home and could write while chewing. I eased into it, writing whatever came to mind, sometimes not finishing anything. I just wrote like scratching words on paper was going to diffuse a bomb before the end of my lunch hour. It was desperate, frantic, exhilarating. It became a craving every day, more necessary than my food on occasion. I could type it when I got home, in the brain-dead evening hours, and in 15-minute intervals. I could puzzle out difficult plot points during my commutes and commit them to memory until I could write them down.
Occasionally, like today, I've had a fairly quiet house to myself. Today has been very productive on the writing front, but there have been days of free time when I haven't written a word. Even though I knew I would kick myself when it was over for wasting a whole day, why couldn't I get any writing done? Sometimes when I don't feel like writing, I really should just listen to that feeling. It takes some introspection, to know if I'm being lazy or if I'm going to spin my wheels, without accomplishing anything other than frustration. Giving myself leave to watch a movie or waste a couple of hours on the game console can be productive for my writing. It's energizing, and it can enable me to let go of my day job or other stresses, so my mind can stumble its way back into a creative mode again.
That desire to write isn't every really absent. Sometimes it's just hidden amidst the clutter of other stuff in my mind. Often it's waiting impatiently to be freed from the weight of distractions, by indulging in more stimulating activities, many that people find to be distractions themselves. I really always want to write, even when I feel like I can't, and sometimes forcing the writing is counterproductive.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Bionic Overhaul
Some of the typical and most frustrating signs that I'm aging manifest themselves as achy joints and other pains. Luckily most seem easily remedied by exercise and an occasional visit to a gifted chiropractor and healer. Looking down the road, part of me wonders what the future will hold beyond knee replacement surgery and cortisone shots. Cyberpunk is one my favorite sub-genres of science fiction, where man melds with machine and often becomes superhuman in the process, and I can't help envisioning myself sporting bionic limbs, taking the stairs like a kangaroo. For those with limited exposure to the cyberpunk genre, I urge you to read the source materials to find some true treasures of futurist writing.
My first glimpse of the possibilities for mechanized enhancement came courtesy of The Six Million Dollar Man. Today, Steve Austin's and Jamie Sommers' bionics would not be nearly as affordable (something like $60M for his and hers cybernetics). Short of volunteering for experimental surgery, it's unlikely most of us will ever see such medical technology made publicly available in our lifetimes. Since reality isn't somewhere I usually spend much of my free time, please indulge my imagination.
A spinal replacement would likely be my top choice. I've had a bad back for years, and it's limited me on several major occasions in my life. It also seems like a logical choice, though I'm ignoring the complexity and recovery time involved, hoping that the technology would also exist to make these minor inconveniences. Replacing my spine would be a good start to further overhaul most of my joints and skeleton, not to mention I could easily end up taller just by eliminating unnatural curvature. Once I got started, I wouldn't want to stop until I could enjoy new, pain-free shoulders, knees, and elbows. I'd spend my first month post-recovery on the tennis court and the the first winter skiing.
Some of my favorite cyberpunk fiction involves software that can be run in one's brain, knowledge immediately accessible: language fluency, computer expertise, and interfaces with the nervous system to allow me to play music like a virtuoso or perform stunts like Jackie Chan. I could say goodbye to my GPS, since it's incapable of staying suctioned to my windshield anyway, and access all of the same data with a thought.
My vision upgrades could allow me to see across the light spectrum. I promise to use my X-ray vision like a complete gentleman. Having eyes that could function like a microscope, binoculars, and light-gathering goggles could allow me to perceive the world around me to the very edge of my abilities to comprehend it. Augmented senses of taste and smell would allow me to truly appreciate all of the world's marvelous cuisine and beverages beyond my currently stunted palate's abilities. Surely there would be times when I would need to switch off these senses entirely, too.
Finally, breakthroughs to allow me to defy age-related mental deterioration would make aging far more exciting and less dreadful. Adding memory like a new hard drive on a computer, accessing names and other information like light-speed database searches; how might these things provide a quality of life for my aging self that I can only dream of?
What if youth were no longer wasted on the young? What if you could replace those bothersome knees with state-of-the-art joints to let you take the stairs three at a time? What if we could enjoy active lives as long as we wanted to live them? Like any technology, cybernetic body parts could be used for evil just as much as good. In fact, that's usually what makes great conflict in cyberpunk fiction, but I hope we get to see an equally awesome revolution in the quality of people's futures as well.
My first glimpse of the possibilities for mechanized enhancement came courtesy of The Six Million Dollar Man. Today, Steve Austin's and Jamie Sommers' bionics would not be nearly as affordable (something like $60M for his and hers cybernetics). Short of volunteering for experimental surgery, it's unlikely most of us will ever see such medical technology made publicly available in our lifetimes. Since reality isn't somewhere I usually spend much of my free time, please indulge my imagination.
A spinal replacement would likely be my top choice. I've had a bad back for years, and it's limited me on several major occasions in my life. It also seems like a logical choice, though I'm ignoring the complexity and recovery time involved, hoping that the technology would also exist to make these minor inconveniences. Replacing my spine would be a good start to further overhaul most of my joints and skeleton, not to mention I could easily end up taller just by eliminating unnatural curvature. Once I got started, I wouldn't want to stop until I could enjoy new, pain-free shoulders, knees, and elbows. I'd spend my first month post-recovery on the tennis court and the the first winter skiing.
Some of my favorite cyberpunk fiction involves software that can be run in one's brain, knowledge immediately accessible: language fluency, computer expertise, and interfaces with the nervous system to allow me to play music like a virtuoso or perform stunts like Jackie Chan. I could say goodbye to my GPS, since it's incapable of staying suctioned to my windshield anyway, and access all of the same data with a thought.
My vision upgrades could allow me to see across the light spectrum. I promise to use my X-ray vision like a complete gentleman. Having eyes that could function like a microscope, binoculars, and light-gathering goggles could allow me to perceive the world around me to the very edge of my abilities to comprehend it. Augmented senses of taste and smell would allow me to truly appreciate all of the world's marvelous cuisine and beverages beyond my currently stunted palate's abilities. Surely there would be times when I would need to switch off these senses entirely, too.
Finally, breakthroughs to allow me to defy age-related mental deterioration would make aging far more exciting and less dreadful. Adding memory like a new hard drive on a computer, accessing names and other information like light-speed database searches; how might these things provide a quality of life for my aging self that I can only dream of?
What if youth were no longer wasted on the young? What if you could replace those bothersome knees with state-of-the-art joints to let you take the stairs three at a time? What if we could enjoy active lives as long as we wanted to live them? Like any technology, cybernetic body parts could be used for evil just as much as good. In fact, that's usually what makes great conflict in cyberpunk fiction, but I hope we get to see an equally awesome revolution in the quality of people's futures as well.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Notes From the Road
I recently returned from a trip back home to Upstate NY. I try to go every summer, taking my wife and son along to see my relatives and friends. Sometimes the timing allows us to attend a reunion of my mother's side of the family, but we unfortunately missed it this year. Instead I was lucky enough to attend my 25th (gasp!) high school reunion, and it was a blast to catch up with people I hadn't seen since graduation. Some came from as far as California and Georgia, so I felt a little ashamed that it was the first reunion I had ever attended. It was also flattering to hear a couple of people comment about some of my blog entries. I sincerely encouraged a couple of classmates to start blogging, and I hope they decide to try it.
We drove up from NC in a rented Hyundai Santa Fe Sport. If you can believe my son's preferences, it wasn't as nice as the Chevy Tahoe we rented last year, an unplanned upgrade when our intended vehicle didn't make it to the rental agency in time for our departure. My son's rating system seems skewed in favor of larger vehicles with lots of electronic gizmos. I liked the Santa Fe's better gas mileage, and it had sufficient room for our luggage and assortment of snacks and travel amusements. Granted there were only three of us. When we added my sister's two kids, seating got a little cramped. The seats were comfy enough, but I was too short to see over the steering wheel without a boost. Luckily I sat on a pillow to avoid butt-thritis over the course of our 12-hour ride.
Driving around my old stomping grounds, memories popped into my head. The river through town was a favorite spot of fishing and canoeing with my father. My parents both competed in at least one canoe regatta that I remembered, too. I passed some houses where I remembered sleepovers with friends, sites of favorite restaurants now long closed, and familiar farms with overgrown fields and houses obviously populated only in summer. I even passed by a place where I once nervously stole a kiss from a high school crush. She took it back with interest as I recall.
We used an application on our phones called "Waze" to locate construction and other delays on our route. It proved valuable in helping us make good time, even if we did end up on some detours that induced carsickness in my son. Some of those roads certainly wouldn't have been navigable in winter with snow to slick them, but they were fine with some added caution for potholes and deer. One of those critters stood in the middle of the road as we approached and took his sweet time leaving. We spotted another alongside the highway in VA. I wish there was a way to teach them to cross roads safely, without endangering anybody or themselves. I find it funny that so many hunters go home empty-handed during deer season, when the varmints seem to be everywhere. They must know to hide when hunting season comes around. If they're smart enough to do that, you'd think they could cross the street safely.
Sheetz continues to be one of my favorite places to fuel up our vehicle and ourselves. Their gas prices are usually very competitive, and they have an abundance of tasty, freshly cooked fare to offer. Some of it is even relatively healthy. In addition, they have the standard convenient mart stuff for those in a hurry: snacks, sodas, and fresh coffee. It's possible to get sick of eating that type of food, but with the variety they boast it would be difficult for me to tire of it if I weren't watching my weight.
If you're a Facebook friend of mine, look for some photos of scenery from my walks in the country. I'll miss that fresh air, and the cooler temperatures were appreciated by the whole family. My son actually complained one morning of being cold, and I asked him to try to remember that feeling when we returned to NC.
Sheetz continues to be one of my favorite places to fuel up our vehicle and ourselves. Their gas prices are usually very competitive, and they have an abundance of tasty, freshly cooked fare to offer. Some of it is even relatively healthy. In addition, they have the standard convenient mart stuff for those in a hurry: snacks, sodas, and fresh coffee. It's possible to get sick of eating that type of food, but with the variety they boast it would be difficult for me to tire of it if I weren't watching my weight.
If you're a Facebook friend of mine, look for some photos of scenery from my walks in the country. I'll miss that fresh air, and the cooler temperatures were appreciated by the whole family. My son actually complained one morning of being cold, and I asked him to try to remember that feeling when we returned to NC.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Following My Dream Like a Responsible Adult
I was straddling the fence on whether to write about the topic of following one's passion. To some people, this is a guiding principle. To others, it's a bunch of touch-feely malarkey of epic proportions. To me, passion is a two-edged sword. It can be what inspires me to give my utmost to a project. It can also make me beat my head against the wall when I hit a roadblock that seems impassable. In the end, I straddle that fence, and try to take the best passion has to offer me and leave behind what remains.
I've loved writing fiction since I was in middle school. Creating worlds, monsters, and adventures has always been something that excites me. Sometimes it keeps me up at night, thinking about the backstory of a character or the characteristics of an alien species. Writing and selling novels has always been a dream of mine, where other people dream of being rock stars. I love to hear or read stories of people who have made their dreams reality, beating the odds by hard work and dedication. I think we all do, picturing ourselves in the person's shoes and wondering what it would be like to realize such success. Reality is the other, some might say heavier, side of the coin. It can be disappointing to see years of our lives pass by with our dreams still out of reach.
Mike Rowe, of "Dirty Jobs" fame, has an interesting take on following one's passions and why he hates hearing it. Here's a link to it. I have to agree with a lot of what he says, even if I felt my spirit crushed a bit while reading it. Reality, dreams or not, dictates our circumstances. It can seem cruel and unjust, but that doesn't change the way things are. When I've told people that I want to write novels for a living, typically I've gotten the advice that I shouldn't quit my day job. It's hard to make a living doing that, I often hear. No argument there.
But here's my beef with these practical arguments against following passions: it's how people start down the path to greatness. Dreams don't make up all the bricks in the road, but they keep people striving and determined and enthusiastically working hard. The likelihood of failure is directly proportional to how large one's dreams are, and at some point all of these people have to face that reality. And sometimes they quit, but they give it their best shots. That's what I really want to do for my dream of selling my fiction. I want to wring every drop of creativity out of my brain, edit ruthlessly, and fail until I succeed. I don't want to spend the last days of my life regretting that I didn't try hard enough to realize my dream.
I still have my day job. In fact, I went back to college to get a degree in something I knew would get me a better job, even though I knew that occupation would have nothing to do with my passions and dreams for writing. Why? Bills, health insurance, and looking forward to a family were all part of the decision. Do I regret it? No. Do I wish I had more time to spend pursuing my dream? Absolutely. I know that if I hadn't gone back to school, I would be struggling to make ends meet. I might have two jobs, leaving me even less time to write than I have now. I don't think it would be right to have to depend on the generosity of others to support my dream, whether living in my mom's spare bedroom or living off government assistance. If it's really a dream of mine, I will make the time I need to reach it, and I will be more proud of myself for accomplishing it without abandoning my real life responsibilities.
So Mike Rowe is right, in a sense. I have to live in the real world, and that means my dream must often come second. But I won't give up on it as long as I have the strength to type in my fingers and the brainpower to come up with stories to tell. "Take your passion with you," he says in the video at the above link. I never leave home without it.
I've loved writing fiction since I was in middle school. Creating worlds, monsters, and adventures has always been something that excites me. Sometimes it keeps me up at night, thinking about the backstory of a character or the characteristics of an alien species. Writing and selling novels has always been a dream of mine, where other people dream of being rock stars. I love to hear or read stories of people who have made their dreams reality, beating the odds by hard work and dedication. I think we all do, picturing ourselves in the person's shoes and wondering what it would be like to realize such success. Reality is the other, some might say heavier, side of the coin. It can be disappointing to see years of our lives pass by with our dreams still out of reach.
Mike Rowe, of "Dirty Jobs" fame, has an interesting take on following one's passions and why he hates hearing it. Here's a link to it. I have to agree with a lot of what he says, even if I felt my spirit crushed a bit while reading it. Reality, dreams or not, dictates our circumstances. It can seem cruel and unjust, but that doesn't change the way things are. When I've told people that I want to write novels for a living, typically I've gotten the advice that I shouldn't quit my day job. It's hard to make a living doing that, I often hear. No argument there.
But here's my beef with these practical arguments against following passions: it's how people start down the path to greatness. Dreams don't make up all the bricks in the road, but they keep people striving and determined and enthusiastically working hard. The likelihood of failure is directly proportional to how large one's dreams are, and at some point all of these people have to face that reality. And sometimes they quit, but they give it their best shots. That's what I really want to do for my dream of selling my fiction. I want to wring every drop of creativity out of my brain, edit ruthlessly, and fail until I succeed. I don't want to spend the last days of my life regretting that I didn't try hard enough to realize my dream.
I still have my day job. In fact, I went back to college to get a degree in something I knew would get me a better job, even though I knew that occupation would have nothing to do with my passions and dreams for writing. Why? Bills, health insurance, and looking forward to a family were all part of the decision. Do I regret it? No. Do I wish I had more time to spend pursuing my dream? Absolutely. I know that if I hadn't gone back to school, I would be struggling to make ends meet. I might have two jobs, leaving me even less time to write than I have now. I don't think it would be right to have to depend on the generosity of others to support my dream, whether living in my mom's spare bedroom or living off government assistance. If it's really a dream of mine, I will make the time I need to reach it, and I will be more proud of myself for accomplishing it without abandoning my real life responsibilities.
So Mike Rowe is right, in a sense. I have to live in the real world, and that means my dream must often come second. But I won't give up on it as long as I have the strength to type in my fingers and the brainpower to come up with stories to tell. "Take your passion with you," he says in the video at the above link. I never leave home without it.
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