I swear I was thinking about this in the shower this morning and then I read Tony's post on my RSS aggregator and had to appreciate the irony so I'm writing about it.
Ten years ago, the Internet was something I only used to look up the chords and lyrics for my favorite songs that I wanted to strum on my old '72 Fender acoustic six-string.
Ten years ago, I smoked pot several times a day and was a better person for it.
Ten years ago, I had sex with girls I can't remember their names today. And I did it with their friends too.
Ten years ago, I spent hours and hours in the campus computer lab, pounding away Microsoft Word docs that felt like masterpieces because of the creative force behind them.
Ten years ago, I had to beg to be let into the BGSU writing program because my grades were so bad from my Pre-Med program.
Ten years ago, I didn't speak much to my family.
Ten years ago, I wouldn't have cared if the government burned up along with all the churches in the land as far as the eye could see.
Ten years ago, I could have been a very dangerous person had my ideas been pushed out full force creatively into the populace and embraced in any social way.
But ten years makes a hell of a difference. A window of opportunity opened and it was most astonishing. A whispered choice came my way and Life said, "Well, have you ever thought about falling in love?"
And I said, "Well, that's interesting. What do you mean?"
And Life said, "You have to get on the waterslide to find which way it twists."
And I said, "That seems like a lot of trouble. I think I'll stick to being a revolutionary, thank you very much. My public needs me. The world might fall apart without the work I'm doing now."
(NOTE: Prolonged use of marijuana tends to lead to delusions of grandeur--not recommended for the weak of spirit and mind)
And Life laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And coughed because it was laughing so hard.
And I said, "Fine, let me think about it." But the truth is that I was pissed and hurt that Life would laugh at me like that and I didn't want to say the wrong thing because when Life leaves you, you got nothing left, Jack.
But something happened in the weeks as they rolled into months after that conversation--I began seeing myself as a man with roots, something planted and growing. And I began to come back to this world, clawing my way back to sanity, going delusion back to illusion.
And then the strangest thing happened. I called up Life and made the deal. I said, "Okay, you've got it. I'm in. But here's the deal--I still want to write, okay. I've got some important things to say." But I was smart enough to add this caveat. "At least, they're important to me."
And Life nodded, knowing already. I said, "My Life is mine. I mean, you are mine and I'm not going to waste you."
Life nodded. And Life hung up the phone without a word.
Two weeks later, I got another phone call. It was Life disguised as a girl from one of my Creative Writing workshop classes. I had put my phone number on my critique of her poem and said something about going out sometime (I was too pussy to ask her out in person, so I had to do it on paper). But this was like two months before this phone call.
It was right before winter break and she had been going through old class notes before exams and came across my critique. So she called.
Fast forward ten years.
We have been sleeping in the same bed ever since.
We've got a home we're both proud of.
We have a child that is an absolute blessing and joy to be around, like a 24-hour reminder of God's grace on this earth (but all the best parents feel this way about their children as I've discovered since becoming a father).
And I'm still a writer. I'm working on a novel right now where a dead guy comes back to life and runs for President but it's so much more than that. There are so many things that are coming out that I realize that I needed the experience of having a family, and of voting Republican in a Republican state for the past two elections, to be able to tell this story.
Which is odd because for five years, I have sometimes felt like a bit of a failure because I hadn't yet broken out as a writer. Writing isn't something I have to practice at to get better. I will go through periods when I don't want to even look at a keyboard. But then there are times when my fingers have been worn raw from attacking the keys as I fought to keep up with the speed of my thoughts.
Blogging has given me a platform to test waters and I enjoy it so much that I keep coming back day after day. And it has repaid me kindly. More and more people are coming to BWP every day, subscribing to the RSS feed and sending their friends this way. In fact, I have increased my readership 300% in only one year and I feel blessed for the praise and criticism which makes me a better writer and human being.
And I blogged right past my one-year blogoversery because I was out with my family and didn't think to congratulate myself until just now.
So Tony has sometimes thoughts of failure because he doesn't have a family or isn't a columnist in some major paper and I have similar thoughts because I haven't won a Pulitzer for my breakout All-American novel but the truth is that all writers have this secret fear (at least the good ones) because we are always measuring ourselves up to the expectations of our audience and in our minds we always come up slack (even when we're not).
Personally, I feel that 80% of our creative energy is best spent on our family and friends and the other 20% should be channeled into writing or whatever our passions drive us toward in their chosen vehicle of expression. I disagree with Tony, who says that he writes only to get laid--I think that's a trite curtain to hide behind. Being a five-foot five skinny white kid who happened to have a talented mind and pen never got me laid. It was the conversations that got me laid, the emotional creativity I put into willing a woman to get naked with me that got me between the warm thighs of those saintly women who gave it up to me without even taking them on dates.
Stephen King said it best, "Life is not a support system for art--it's the other way around." And I want to thank each and every one of my readers for continuing to come back and sanctify this cyber-ground.
"
All hail the writing king
who died in a book instead of living the thing"
--Joshua Minton April 5, 2006--
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