Vol III: #81 Not A Loser

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Back in January, when my friend Jay texted me about a job, he pitched me on the idea of being a customer success rep. I’d manage marketing projects and engage clients. The idea was sound and I was excited to take the position. I’d spent the previous three years my skills in project management and client relations. Then, a few weeks after my conversation with Jay, I say down with his partner Tim. And he pitched me a completely different job. After a few moments, my head began to spin as I realized this is a sales gig.

I hated sales. mostly because I was convinced I’d never be good at it. When I was 20, I was roped into selling second-hand telephone services door-to-door. That illustrious career ended after two days. More than a decade later, I tried sell fresh fish and walked out, mid day, a few months later. Not long after, I found myself hocking thin clients via phone to poor school districts, and then rapid app development to huge corporations like GE and Whirlpool. And at each stop, I felt like a loser, always at the bottom of the rankings, always struggling to keep up. And there I sat across from Tim, after months of prayer, listening to him describe a new sales role to me. And deep in my chest I knew this is the opportunity I wanted. Don’t run. Don’t self-sabotage.

It wasn’t until this week that I understood what truly bothered me about sales: the losing. And the losing happens a lot. The best sales people lose at least 50-60% of the time. But, they don’t back down. They cope and learn and go back out into the fray. And this is what all winners do. No champion is undefeated or unscarred. The difference between winners and losers is how they handle losing, because everyone loses. Winners use the disappointment and pain to regroup and improve. Losers lick their wounds and run from the next fight.

I’ve been a loser. I’ve run from many fights and battles because I didn’t believe I could win. So, I shrunk and hid behind rationalizations like sales isn’t my thing or that’s not my skill set. In truth, it’s about the winning and losing. And I hate losing. I hate that feeling of not good enough. And now, the Lord has given me the opportunity to laugh at those lies, everyday of my working life.

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Vol III: #80 Coffee Shop Summit

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Four excited teenagers sit at a coffee bar made of dull corrugated siding and a formica counter top with a potted pothos spilling down over each end. Three boys and a girl, dressed like you’d expect California teenagers to be dressed, surf shoes, colorful socks and skinny jeans. From behind the counter, a curly haired man sporting a Jesus beard and a maroon t-shirt makes small talk with the quartet. The elder asks the younger a series of questions and listens to their reply, and in doing so, validates their presence. He’s talking to them as worthy peers, uninterested in the ticks or breaks in focus. He doesn’t care when they glance down at their phones or change the conversation. He flows with them rather than against them.

And now the curly Jesus is propped up on his arms across the counter, and he’s drinking a macha tea, and still in the exchange. And it’s clear the teenagers could leave. Their’s nothing in the dialogue forcing them to their seats, by obligation or expectation. And then the conversation became animated and exciting, one boy bouncing in his seat as the volume of the discussion rose. Then like thunder, one, now two, high fives echo through the shop, above the folk music and low drum of hushed conversations.

Through out the exchange, I receive over-the-shoulder glances from each member of the coffee shop summit, as I observe and type. I am the interloper, obviously. And they do not know why I sit and smile at my screen and off into the distance. They don’t know I am happy to observe their world where adults and teenagers respect each other and have joyful conversations. And I hope they keep on talking and enjoying each other, but if they don’t, I hope they latch onto these moments, where life wasn’t awful or complicated or newsworthy, but it was good.

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Vol III: #79 Proud of My Work

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He looked off camera and signed. “Nothing you do is special and the field is highly competitive. I could just hire someone off UpWork.” Oh? I wondered and then began to boil. Why don’t you “just hire someone from Upwork?” Do us all a favor. But I said nothing. This man named Leif was blithely unaware of the faux pas he’d committed as he continued to belittle my company and the value we provide for our customers. Poor bastard. He didn’t know he was drawing dead after his expression of contempt for our services, like a fool adding chips to the pot when he’s already beat. And out of habit or professional duty I managed to answer a few of remaining questions as we discussed the next step in the sales process.

After the call ended I went for a walk, a long walk on an unusually hot spring afternoon. Half way through the forest, I began to argue with an imaginary version of that sonofabitch, to justify my perspective. And then, I began to worry about what how to explain the situation to my boss. Tim is a gentle man and kind to the extreme. I envisioned Tim finding a way to work with that douche bag even though everything inside me screamed nope, not today dickbag. And then, as I do, I questioned myself. Was I being the asshole? Was I being too sensitive? Leif’s careless disregard for my profession felt like a personal attack, though he was likely a douche being a douche.

And now, in the safety of my cool apartment, I still feel a bit ashamed by Leif’s words and weary of the looming conversation with Tim. But, I did what I thought was right. Leif is a dick with selfish intentions. He would’ve been a nightmare as a client. Emotion aside, I did my job and I’m proud of the work I did today.

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Vol III: #78 A Failing Memory

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My memory is fickle and a poor friend when it remembers moments I’d rather forget. Today, it was a Facebook post by an old girlfriend. Even after she left me, the woman made posts belittling me, to justify her decision. And I remembered seeing the post and the condemnation I felt, and then new shame soaked me to the bone. And I cried as if I’d just read what she wrote and again my heart grieved. How foolish I’d been to believe in her, in us together. Why had I given her my best? And now I was suffering the same judgement all these years after her final verdict.

And I want to defend myself and respond the loveless, lonely woman. I want to destroy her with my words and crush her fragile spirit. And I know this is a wrong and sinful desire, so I stop to focus on my breathing, long deep breaths, in and out, one after another, until my mind settled and my heart is calm. Then I prayed and wept to the Lord, ashamed of being haunted by old memories. And He reminded me “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” And there is no statute of limitation on His promises of mercy, hope, and grace. And I will be comforted, and I will process this moment as I must, and then I will continue forward with a life greater than I imagined, even when I dated her.

Thank you, Lord.

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Vol III: #77 A Blur, A Woo-hoo

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Of the last six days, I can’t remember Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday. Though when I woke up, I recall the thought Tuesday was Friday. And with a few exceptions, I didn’t have the mental and emotional capacity to engage any of my favorite/life-giving habits. I didn’t write (except in my physical journal) didn’t practice German, and I didn’t read. My new job sucked my will to live right out of my brain. And I spent most of my evenings on the couch, trying to relax.

The problem with the couch is it isn’t a place to relax, not when I want to be productive. Instead of feeling satisfied with my day or work, I stew. I steep. I mire into my thoughts and feelings, and then I try to go to sleep. Ironically, more work- in the form of my passion projects- is more relaxing than doing nothing.

The higher and more relevant truth is I don’t want to be a salesman with hobbies. I want my hobbies to become my job, and the only way to get there is to grind until I make it. And, it sucks when I have weeks like last week when I’m drained and frustrated, when I’ve given all my energy and talents to a job and a business that only asks for more. But, this marketing/sales job is the opportunity I was given. And it’s a good opportunity, with good people and good product.

The choices are in front me. I can bitch and moan, and find reasons to fail. Or, I can demand more from myself, and push myself further than ever before. Plenty of people have faced similar circumstances and completed the journey.

That’s gonna be me.

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Vol III: #76 Have Fun

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Fun for an adult is often a four letter word. Sure, we’re allowed to have fun, but only scheduled fun or briefly between adulty duties. And any adult who has too much fun isn’t consider much of one. No. We adults must get on with the serious business of living and working and dying. And we must encourage other adults to live and work and die because that’s what we are doing.

If I may, please indulge me for a moment. What if we didn’t have to sacrifice the fun and joy of living for the sake of life? Yes, we must be responsible. Without question, pay the bills, hug your spouse, blah blah, etc. Yes.d But, why do waste so much life on shit that doesn’t produce good fruit in our lives? Hiding behind our fears and the expectations of others? And make no mistakes, the expectations of others are a crutch, a rationale to self-sabotage and walk away from greatness. To this point, I say show me a people pleasers and I’ll show you someone who hates themself. As my dad would say, ask me how I know.

Today I was reminded of what it was like to play in the dirt or scribble on paper as a boy, when I didn’t give a shit about being a man. It was glorious, and I’m glad my parents let me do it. And I can’t say when or where those things stopped being fun, when I let my “work” be compared to others, and when I internalized the feeling of inferiority. At some moment, I stopped enjoying the process and was discouraged by the paintings and drawings of others. So, it was good to remember being a child and being content to experiment and to enjoy the process. In fact, it’s my hearts cry for the rest of the year, to get lost in the process like a boy still playing in the dirt as the sun slides down.

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Abstract: Resurrection

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The boy sat and scribbled and felt a joy inside him.

He played and experimented with the colors and lines,

and knew not of the world or judgment or fear.

And maybe, as is said, he had talent or something akin to it.

Perhaps he was average.

But on the carpet, without perspective or worry,

the child was content and loved his life without need or a care.

And then, someone said he had a talent,

giving birth to expectation, a burden yoked to his back.

And the scribbles had to be something,

and the scribbles of others were better than his,

and the boy lost the fun of color and lines amid the throng of demands.

Eventually, while still young, he set down his colors and gave up scribbling,

to be a man.

And the young one became a man, and the man an older man,

and now scribbles and lines were only meant to be hobbies.

But not this man.

Not this older man with greying hair and cheap drug-store glasses.

He decided to go back to scribbling, and fun,

and all the joy lost many years ago.

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Short #5: Life of a Gamecock

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Write a story about a fandom…

Clayton was born in Sumter, South Carolina to Harper and William Marion on a warm spring morning. And the first photo of the moment shows the boy dressed in a white onesie, a big garnet and black block C on his chest and the word “Gamecocks” above it. Months later, and before he could walk, he’d already begun to spend fall Saturdays in the gravel parking lots across from Williams-Brice Stadium. And not long after, when Clayton began to talk, William liked to brag that among his son’s first words were “Go Cocks.” 

And so Clayton was indoctrinated into the world of all things Garnet and Black. He could never remember making a choice to be a Gamecock, mostly because his loyalty to the university and its teams was never presented as a choice. His great grandfather played for the school back in the leather helmet days. His grandfather was president of Sigma Epsilon. And his father held two degrees from the school. And like all the Marion’s before him, William met his wife to be at a fall mixer. 

What did not give Clayton incentive to scream and sing and hope were the teams’ performances. Throughout the years, season after season, Clayton learned to whisper the hopeful words all Gamecocks recite after each and every heart break: Wait ‘til next season. It is this disconnect of loyalty from performance which empowers the poor bastards to suffer failure and loss. 

For Clayton, his loyalty began to fray his freshman year in Columbia. After watching the football team sustain an unusual run of success the previous three seasons, the Gamecocks slipped back to mediocrity under the guidance of a has-been coach. The has-been quit halfway through the season which ended in another defeat to their rivals from the upstate, the Clemson Tigers.

Later that evening back in Sumter, Clayton and his best friend Chandler drowned their disappointment in a twelve pack of Natty Light. And they examined the game and the season as all fanatics do, searching for blame and hope. 

“We’ll get a good coach, Clay. Wait till next year,” offered Chandler, half cynically half serious. 

“Huh?,” shot back Clayton. 

“Whadda mean, huh? I said we’ll land a good coach.”

“No, the other thing.”

“What? Wait till next year? Come on man. You know that’s our motto.”

“Yeah, I know it. Wait till next year…” Clayton let the words hang in the air for a long second before continuing. “Thing is, next year never comes.”

“Dude, stop. Don’t be a sad drunk.”

“I’m not, I–”

“Yes, you are. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to this nonsense. You know I’m right. You’re just gonna regret it in the mornin’.” 

Clayton looked out his bedroom window, into the black November air, took another swallow of beer and turned back to Chandler, “Aren’t you tired of losing?” Chandler knew it was a question deeper and more sincere than any produced by alcohol. 

“Yeah, man. I am. I get it. But we don’t change who we are because we lose. I believe we’ll win one day and it’ll make all this suffering worth it. Think about it. Wouldn’t you love to rub it in your cousin Brandon’s face, that smug orange hillbilly’s face. It’ll happen. And you’ll be glad you stuck with it when it does.”

Chandler’s faith and logic made sense, from a fan’s point for view. And Clayton lacked the energy to continue the debate. “Yeah, man. It’ll be awesome,” he finally relented. And the friends went down the stairs to munch on leftover Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing. 

True to their nature, within weeks of the end of another terrible campaign, hope began to sprout on the Carolina campus. A new coach revived the spirits of the faithful and Clayton allowed himself to dream once more. He even engaged in a bit of trash talk with his cousin Brandon at the lake one July afternoon. From under the shelter he yelled, “Don’t feed him momma, not till he takes off that tacky orange hat.” Then, turning to Brandon he asked, “Why do you insist on wearing that crap around here? You know we’re all garnet and black.”

Brandon smiled and stepped to Clayton's side, close enough to make him uncomfortable, “What? Don’t like being reminded who runs this state?” 

“Pff. If we had y’alls cupcake of a schedule…”

And then, for the rest of the afternoon, the boys exchanged the tired salvos heard often between rivals, where nothing is settled or meant to be. 

When the fall semester started, hope filled the campus and students. A new coach will do that. And by October, the Gamecocks were a miserable 2-4. And though he said nothing, Clayton began to ask bigger questions about his loyalty to a school and a team, questions a man isn’t allowed to ask. After the loss to Georgia, he began to find reasons to skip home games. The UMass game started too early, he told his parents. The following week he decided he was sick. And for the Tennessee game, he invented a girlfriend- a lie that satisfied both parents and friends. 

What made that particular season awful were the needling, shit-talking texts from Brandon. Clemson was winning, and winning a lot. And Clayton knew the rivalry game after Thanksgiving was going to be a blood-bath. And, just as he’d always done, he’d have to watch the slaughter like the faithful idiot he was. This bothered Clayton and the questions lingering in his mind became loud and demanded to be answered.

Hoping for a better scene, Clayton opted to watch the game with Chandler alone in his living room instead of the family gathering on the other side of Sumter. The two made pimento cheese and ham sandwiches and polished off a six pack of cheap beer prior to kickoff. Chandler predicted an upset for the Gamecocks. Clayton nodded but made no such prophecy.

Then the misery commenced. After the first quarter, the score was 21-0, Clemson. 35-0 at the half. And ended with a final score of 56-7. The game wasn’t as close as the score. As the final second fell off the clock, and two friends sat on the couch in silent despair, the TV flickering on their faces.  

“Glad I brought this,” quipped Chandler as he revealed a handle of Jack Daniels previously hidden in his backpack. Clayton grinned for a moment and nodded his approval. Soon they were passing the bottle back and forth, diving deeper into a whiskey stupor. 

Chandler knew better than to talk about the game, and put his drunken mind to work searching for safe topics of conversation. 

“Whadda wanna do tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow? Hell, I dunno. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s get back to campus early and go to the river walk, the Cayce side. It’s better. Less people.”

“Yeah.”

“And maybe I can meet that girl you’re seeing?”

“Girl I’m seeing?”

“Yeah. The one you sat with for the Tennessee–” Chandler caught himself and went quiet. In less than a few seconds he’d broken his own rule. And though he knew to avoid talking football after defeat, he could not have anticipated what came next. Clayton began to laugh a deep guttural laugh. He doubled over then snapped his head back. At first, Chandler was relieved, then Clayton answered.

“There’s no fucking girl, hommie. Never was. I made her up so I didn’t have to go to the game.”

Chandler was stunned as Clayton continued.

“Matter fact, I’m done.”

“Alright Clay, chill out.”

“Fuck you, chill out. I’m serious. I’m tired of being loyal to this school. I didn’t choose them and they sure as shit ain’t doing a thing for me.”

“Careful now,” Chandler warned. “You can’t take some things back.”

“Ok, mister wannabe attorney, let me ask you a question or two,” Clayton said as he stumbled to his feet and paced back and forth like a courtroom lawyer.

“When did you decide you were going to be a Gamecock? When did you decide you were going to that school? Can you remember?” Chandler had no answer. Like Clayton, he was always a Gamecock. He didn’t see it as choice, rather a way of life- as part of his family as Christmas or barbecue. The following silence between the friends was long and uncomfortable. The questions Clayton asked were about more than football or a university. They were about a culture and the only way they knew how to live. Finally Chandler responded.

“You’re right Clayton. I didn’t choose this. We didn’t choose this. It was passed to us by people who love us as it was passed to them, I think. What were they supposed to do?” Clayton felt and then dismissed the compassion in his friend’s question. “Just because I was born a Gamecock doesn’t mean I have to stay a Gamecock.” 

“True. Very true. But what’ll people say Clay?”

“That I’m smart and can tell a winner from a loser.”

“Not around here they won’t. You know that. They’ll question your integrity, your honor.”

“My honor? What is this? War? Are we at war? Are you telling me 80,000 idiots show up to that shitty stadium seven Saturdays a year because they are too scared to admit it’s a waste?’

At that exact moment, both boys' eyes grew wide at the sound of creaking floor boards. Though they couldn’t tell which one made the noise, it had to be made by either William or Harper. And Clayton felt a shock rippled through his chest as he waited for the worst. “Rough game tonight, eh?” panned William from the direction of the noise, coming closer as he spoke. 

“Yes sir. Lousy game to end the year on,” Chandler responded as quickly as he could then immediately regretted speaking first. Clayton panicked and kept silent. Then William took another step into the room. And now both boys could see Mr Marion’s face in the flicker of the blue TV light. And he was somber as a cemetery as he stared directly at his son. 

Indeed, the old man had heard his son and he was angry, yet he understood. There’s nothing easy or fun about being devoted to a team so undeserving as the South Carolina Gamecocks. William knew the frustration of devotion more than his son did. And William knew his son too. He knew when his son had thought long and deep about a thing. And so he stood in the dimly lit room with two drunkards, and searched his heart for wisdom.

“Yep,” he began. “Today was as bad as it gets. But before I get to outta here, let me set you straight on something. For some people, it’s a tradition or an identity. For me, I love my school because I decided to love my school. Whatever comes. Same way I decided to love your mother and you. Even when you’re drunk and cussing in my house. And I’m going to keep on loving my wife and my son and my school. No matter what. Because, I’m committed. You hear me?”

“Yes sir,” whispered Clayton, his heart now beginning to slow, though still thumping in his ears while Chandler remained as still as a statue.

“Good. Before you get to bed, pour out the rest of that bottle and drink plenty of water. Being a Gamecock is a rough life. The bottle won’t help.”

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Vol III: #75 Funeral Parties

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My dad has always said he wants us to through a party when he dies. He also asked us to play all nine part of Shine On You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd, with its 26 minute running time. The first request to party we will honor, but I’m not subjecting the people in attendance to an epically weird, electric rock opera. But, after watching the live stream of a funeral today (for a family member), I renewed my resolve to honor my father in death. There will be no somber officiant, preaching to the assembly. No tired alter call. I want music and memories and drinks and food he’d love to eat with us.

I understand grief, but I do not understand the need to make a funeral a solemn affair. Even the tragic ones. We aren’t entitled to life. And it is only out of some sense of entitlement that we see death as “untimely.” And, I’ve seen plenty of death, watched a lot of people respond poorly to it, including me. The key is to live and be intentional rather than reactionary. Funerals ought to be a time of gratitude and celebration. Of course, it’s a ok to cry and miss someone (I’m not an asshole.) Children who miss a parent or parents who lose children have a right to that grief. But to be defined by it? That’s not how to live.

The first time I heard my dad ask for a funeral party I thought he was nuts, but I get it now. It’s better to celebrate what was and what lives on rather than moan what will never be. And I want that for me. I want my friends to gather on a beach or in a forest, throw back whatever beverages suits them, and laugh. Oh please laugh, tis my funeral request. Laugh at my mistakes and misadventures. Laugh at all my failed career choices. Laugh and remember the moments we shared. But please laugh. And then, go live.

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Short #4: Hope in a Envelope

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Write about someone who thinks they just got a great deal on something, only for them to realize…

I was desperate. Between night classes and a slow season at the pizza shop, my bank account struggled to breathe. Thankfully, my boss was generous with leftover slices and school was a short walk from my one room apartment. I tried to pick up more shifts but my fellow servers were also students suffering through the downturn. And so I spent my lonely hours thumbing through the Free Times, searching for something to ease my anxiety. For weeks I stared at the Help Wanted ads. There were jobs for people with construction skills, telemarketing offers for “highly motivated” individuals, and manual labor gigs that paid less than I took home. And then, on the back page were advertisements, offers of quick cash with “little to no effort.” I did my best to ignore these sirens, having watched people I love fall into pyramid schemes and similar get-rich-quick shenanigans. But, I was desperate, tired of eating cold pizza and spending my nights at home alone. 

In my heart, I knew. I knew it was a scam. But the ad read “Make money stuffing envelopes. Up to $5 per envelope! Work when you want. Make as much money as you want from the comfort of home. Simply send $5 to PO Box 38382, Charlotte, NC to receive your money by mail kit. Include your name and address.” And after weeks of staring at those words, I decided to give it a try. 

I didn’t tell anyone, of course. Why encourage ridicule? My beat up Ford Festiva was already a magnet for jokes and shame. But, what if? What if it was real? What if I could make hundreds or thousands of dollars by stuffing envelopes? 

After I mailed in my $5, I spent the next two weeks in a fantasy land. I could make a lot of money at $5 a pop. An envelope a minute would be equal to $300 per hour. And maybe, I could hire some friends at $2 per envelope. We’d all work one hour per day. After wages and expenses, I figured I could make over $500 every single day. Shoot! Maybe it’s not a scam, and I’m going to hit the jackpot. All hail Nik, the envelope stuffing king of North Carolina. 

And then I thought about what I’d do with all my riches. Buy land, yes. But also, I’d donate money to charity. Why wouldn’t I? And then I’d invest, like the most wise of investors. My thousands would become millions in a matter of months. Yes. Of course they would. And, why not? The same man who had the skill set worthy of waiting tables would become a millionaire by stuffing envelopes and beating the stock market. It was all very logical. I also dreamed of giving my notice at the pizza shop. Obviously, I wouldn’t continue to wait tables for a few bucks an hour. Why would I? My soon-to-be envelope empire was about to make me rich. No more insatiable customers or bad tips. No more cleaning diarrhea splatter off the restroom floor. 

After a week passed, I slowly began to let my fantasies fade into reality. Until one day, a large padded manilla envelope arrived in the mail. My eyes grew wide with excitement and I raced upstairs to my apartment, my package tucked tight between my arm and ribs like a football I refused to fumble.mOnce inside my apartment I kicked off my shoes and settled onto the couch, ready for my life to change.

First, I inspected the manila envelope for special markings or clues of its origin. It was as ordinary as could be, a stamp, my name and address, no return address. But, I remained hopeful. And then with a flourish, I slid my car key into a loose corner of the envelope to rip it open. It was not a smooth operation. My key caught on the air bubbles of the padding inside and left a jagged scar down the edge of the paper. Instead of a clean cut, it looked as though I used a shark to open my package. Bits of plastic bubble wrap and manila paper fell to the carpet around me. And I laughed at myself and thought about the story I’d tell Oprah one day, of how I opened the envelope that changed my life. Finally, I turned the envelope upside down and shook the contents into my open hand. 

Prior to that moment, I ignored the thorn in my brain, a quiet observation that whispered, “this package is too thin.” And then, three measly sheets of paper fell into my hand. This can’t be it, I thought. But it was, and I felt my temperature begin to rise and anger fill my mind.

The first sheet congratulated me for being stupid except they didn’t use the word stupid. They used the word courageous. “Congratulations on taking the first step toward financial freedom. Most people aren’t as courageous as you.” There were more words on the paper but I didn’t need to read them. I knew I had been conned. My heart inched closer to my throat and my head began to pound with embarrassment as I skimmed the next few words, “Simply follow the instructions on page two.”

Out of a desire to know how bad I’d been had, I read page two. And as I expected, what followed was a scheme to commit mail fraud: page two told me to make copies of page three and post them around town- on telephone poles, bulletin boards, laundry mats- anywhere desperate people sought quick answers to their money woes. And page three was a flyer for “The Only Financial Freedom Book You’ll Ever Need.” Supposedly, this magical book contained all the insider information one needed to beat the stock market, buy real estate for “pennies on the dollar,” and all for the low price of $30.

The elegant element to this scam is how the con men tried to bait someone like me into being their middle man. You see, page two told me to add my name to the flyer. The $30 payments along with the name and address of the scammed were to be mailed to me, to my apartment. Then I’d “stuff an envelope” with $25, the name and the address of the scammed, and mail it to a new PO Box in the Charlotte area. Hence, I get my “$5 per envelope,” and the con men got a free $25.

That night, I sat on my couch and cried. I was embarrassed and angry. How had I, a man deemed so smart and worldly by so many, fallen into a mail scam? But there I was, still alone, still broke, headed back to the pizza shop in the morning. And, I wish I could say that’s the last time I let desperation drive my choices, but it ain’t so. $5 is nothing compared to what I lost in crypto. 

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Vol III: #74 New Post Type Coming Tomorrow

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So, to follow up on my last post, I will be featuring a lot more fiction in the form of short stories, beginning tomorrow. I found a couple of website offering daily writing prompts. And my goals are to push myself to write fiction everyday, and to get outside of my comfort zone. It is this second point that frightens and intrigues me the most.

I want to write about things that make me uncomfortable but are honest and real. This blog is often my propaganda, of a sort, though I try to be as raw as possible. Still, I tune my words and hold back when I’m scared of who might read what I wrote. I’ve even removed a few posts for the same reasons.

Anyway, what you’ll read three times a week are short stories based on a prompt. I’ll start with the prompt like Write about someone who thinks they just got a great deal on something, only for them to realize…Then, I’ll write my story, based on something I’ve experienced- the first memory that comes to mind. Tomorrow, I’ll use the prompt above and regale you about one of the many times I’ve been scammed. (Ugh. It’s so embarrassing. But, that’s the point.)

Vol III: #73 New New Goals

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At the start of the year I wrote about my goals. I described my intent to write my first book and finish a massive sculpture. Those are still my goals, and I will complete them one day, replete with champaign toasts and fireworks display. But it will not be this year. Instead, I decided to deepen my foundation in the fundamentals of both endeavors. I’m gonna draw thousands of circles, spheres, and landscapes and spend the next year writing short stories. To support these goals, I enrolled in classes. As they say, “it’s important to put skin in the game.”

The reason why I took a step back is I want to have a solid foundation as an artist and author. Part of the reason I’m a good cook today is because I’ve taken time to learn the basics like cutting vegetables, layering flavors, and accounting for my environment (every kitchen is different.) And I built myself as a cook by cooking every day, with intention. I don’t carelessly through ingredients in a pan hoping for the best, rather I test and taste and adjust. A month ago I made a pot of beans. They were delicious except for the beans were a tad under cooked. No worries, I simply cooked my latest batch for 15 more minutes, stirring more than previously to ensure the top beans were as tender as the beans on the bottom. And I want to bring this approach to my most desired trades.

The world of drawing and painting and sculpture is full of textures, materials, and techniques. The simple mixing of oil paints is skill requiring years to properly master. I can barely draw a circle at the moment. So my choices are either to insist on being great now or learning to be great over the coming decades. It’s a maturity and perspective I wish I had ten or twenty years ago. Thankfully, I have it today. While I have a time to be broke and time to develop.

Going forward, the plan is to pay my dues and learn and grow. I’m not going to be one of those people who tried to do something for a while and gave up. I’m not going to stop because I’m too old or was undeveloped. I will run my race and I will finish it.

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