the circular runner

Archive for the ‘observations’ Category

Running in Circles is moving…so come on along

In career, life, observations, Uncategorized, writing on January 14, 2013 at 8:00 am
moving sale sign

we’re not exactly selling anything–except good writing.

In case you didn’t see the previous post, my friends, this blog is a moving to a new spot.  It’s still all the neuroses you’ve come to expect, but it’s a newly designed site with a really new theme: reinvention.

Like I mentioned previously, you can only run so long in circles.  Sooner or later, you need to get moving towards something.  So, the new site is called re-Do or Die, and that’s what it’s about.  Just so you know, this very day, we have our first guest blogger, Joe Ponepinto, from Saturday Morning Post fame.  Joe is the editor of the Los Angeles Review, and he’s a friend of this blog.  Most importantly, he’s an up and coming fiction, and he’s got some inspirational words about re-inventing himself as a fiction writer.

Come on out and check out the post.  See you in my new diggs!

a guide to getting along with in-laws over the holidays

In humor, life, observations, Uncategorized on January 1, 2013 at 9:37 am

The-Taunting-mother-in-law

One of the many disappointing things about getting older is that you can’t just be an ass and blame other people for your shortcomings.  BOO, old age. BOO!!  Case in point: I’m in Florida for the holidays with my wife’s family.  I’ll admit that at first I wasn’t keen on coming.  I don’t really love traveling over the holidays; I’ve had run-ins with my brother-in-law in the past (though I will say he’s been a real great guy on this visit); and really, Flo. freaks my shit out.

Still, it’s the awkwardness I feel around some of my in-laws that freaks me out most.  When we all sit down for a meal, it feels as if I’m on a bad date–a bad date in which I have to sit across from like a dozen people who don’t want to be there with me.  This is where my progress shines through.  Are you blinded yet?

The other night I was at dinner with the clan.  My father-in-law always likes to go out to some restaurant with everyone at least once.  Odd thing is that almost always, he sits and stares off into space when we get there.  He works hard, to be fair.  And he always works.  He’s also not the only one who seems distant.  My sister-in-law’s boys can sometimes have meltdowns, which only add to the strange feeling because as a whole, I think the family feels some shame for the boys’ behavior, and many of us kind of drift off as the boys are being reprimanded.

Anyway, no one is really talking, or maybe they are.  I am bored out of my mind.  This year, I have The Boy as a shield, and as a friendly face to focus on, SO I’m getting by.  But it hits me.  Part of the reason I feel awkward around my in-laws is that I am always wishing it were different.  Basically, you have a room full of strangers who only come together because of their spouses.  There’s little chance that I would hang out with many of these individuals and the same is true on their end.  And this is where the age thing comes in.  In the past, I would sit back and assume the problem was elsewhere, i.e., with my in-laws.  Occasionally, I would shift the blame to myself.  I know I’m no saint.  But what I think I realized this time out was that I am wrong to assume it’s a matter of blame because the truth is no one is to blame.

It’s no one’s fault.  It’s just what it is.  And I do better when I accept it as such, because if I’m honest, I think that’s where my awkwardness comes in–it’s a masked disappointment that I just can’t seem to find a way in with these people who are so close to the woman I married.  Maybe that’s sad.  Maybe it isn’t.  What do you guys think?  Do you get along with your in-laws?

I hope so.

I also hope you are all having a wonderful holiday season.  See you in 2013.

how do you know if you’re a dreamer (the good-kind) or a dreamer (the loser-kind)?

In career, life, observations, Uncategorized, writing on December 24, 2012 at 6:00 am

img-thing

I sometimes wonder if the answer to this question is akin to that old saying that history is written by the winners.  If you’re not getting my drift here, then let me tell you a little story.  (If you have already received my drift and are thanking me for its wisdom, well, then my story is gravy–haha.)

OK, so about 8 years ago, a good year and a half before I met my wife, I was dating someone at work.  She was a lovely woman–an ex-ballroom dancer, intelligent, pretty, ambitious.  All good things.  I was living in Brooklyn at the time in a big shit hole with a good friend, but I was hating my office job.  I had an interview at a think tank in D.C. for a job heading their communications department.  I hated D.C., but I liked it more than my stupid job, so I was willing to entertain the idea of moving.  The woman I was dating, let’s just call her E., had been through a bad divorce a couple years before and was surprisingly supportive of my prospects.  As I’d later find out, these two things were connected.

At the time, I took E’s enthusiasm at face-value.  We’d been dating a few months, and it was nice that she’d be so happy for me.  But the enthusiasm was a little odd, if not in type then certainly in intensity.  It seemed almost personal.  Still, I tried not to suspect anything.

As it happened, E had an old friend in Baltimore, and she contacted him and asked if I could spend the night after my interview.  The friend, a slightly older man who had a family,  was gracious and offered me a home-cooked meal and a nice bed in his home.  All was great.  Great until we sat down for dinner.  That’s when he started in about E.  “She’s been hurt a lot, Gabe.”  I nodded.  “But E. is turning a corner.  She’s moving up the ladder at work.  She’s going to be really successful, Gabe.”  I smiled, agreeing.  E. was moving up the ladder.  Nothing unusual about the comment, though I have to say that I felt like he was lingering, seemingly waiting for me to say something.  What exactly, I had no idea.  It almost felt like I was her prom date getting interrogated by her father.  Which, as it turned out, was almost exactly what it was, because the very next comment brought into focus something I had suspected but did not want to face: E. wanted to move things along with me, but she wasn’t sure if I had the stuff.  And by stuff, I mean, earning potential.  I know this because the next thing out of this man’s mouth was a pointed: “E used to be a dreamer.  But she’s grown up.  She’s gotten past that silliness, Gabe.”  GIANT PAUSE.  “Have you?  Are you a dreamer?”

Over the next couple minutes, this man would go on to tell me how E. had mentioned numerous times how concerned she was about my wanting to write for a living–a concern she had never voiced before to me, though I knew she was not a fan of my stuff–“too dark, too depressing,” she used to say.

I guess I could have been angry.  I mean, we’d been dating for a couple months, and I was not looking to get married any time soon, so it was kind out of line for her to go and have this guy vet me.  But the truth is I wasn’t pissed.  I was hurt, actually.  And yet, at the same time, I was sure of what I needed to do.  I needed to break up with E.  I was never good at breaking things off with people, but the fact that E. just didn’t get me–because if she had gotten me, she never could’ve have doubted my intentions as a writer–made it easy for me.  I called her that night from the man’s home.  While lying on a pink, frilly comforter that I imagine belonged to the man’s daughter, I basically broke up with E.

All these years later, I’ve had a few little things happen with the writing, but I certainly haven’t broken through.  I can’t say I ever have felt a need to prove E. wrong about my earning potential as a writer.  My wife believes in me.  I’ve had some support from people I trust and respect.  The money, I still hope, will come.  The only unbeliever I have to deal regularly is myself.  Sometimes, I feel things are coming.  Lots of times, I have no idea.  I know that as an artist, this doubt, this constant back and forth between dreaming I can and the nightmare of failure is par for the course.  Hell, I’m not even sure what failure really means to me.

No. That’s not true–not exactly.  I know that failure really means giving up.  And if that is the case, then I have already won.  That’s right, dear E.  Regardless of how it goes for me, I have won because I won’t give up.  That history has already been written.

 

 

what my holy crotch taught me about writing

In career, life, observations, Uncategorized, writing on December 20, 2012 at 10:50 am
batman

holy crotches, Batman. I’m still reinventing myself.

Last week, I was getting ready for work, and I found a hole in my crotch.  (Don’t worry this is a PG post.) I went to my closet only to find out that all my jeans were in the wash.  I wasn’t about to don the slacks–I refuse to do that on two important grounds: 1. I like to be comfy when teaching and 2. I haven’t had to wear slacks in some time and I think I might not fit into any of them any more–a fact that would depress me, vain man that I am.

I basically had two choices: get a dirty pair of jeans out of the hamper or wear the jeans with the holy crotch, which I had put into the trash a few minutes before.  You might be horrified to know I pulled the holy jeans out of the unholy trash.  But there a 10-second rule on pulling jeans out of the trash–something equivalent to having food fall on the ground.  At least there should be.

I did have a third option, by the way: an old pair of black jeans, which I hadn’t worn in over eight years.  Did I ever think these mommy jeans were cool?  Did I not see the extra room in the crotch that made me look like I had a saggy diaper?  Did these very basic fashion issues get past me?  Was I coming off the 90s?    In the end, I stuck with my holy crotch pants, but not before I went through the pockets of my saggy-butt specials.  And now, here is the point of this story: I found a piece of paper with my writing on it–a list of sorts.  And on that list, number three was:

Re-invent yourself

This means that I have had this vague idea in my head for over eight years.  It’s odd how your memory works.  In my head, it’s as if that were a new thought.  I wake up thinking about it.  I write in this blog about it.  I probably talk to my wife too often about it.  But even so, it’s not a new idea.

How I have not realized this probably has to do with the fact that I keep trying new things, and in the last year and a half, the attempts at reinvention are coming faster and harder: novelist, short story writer, graphic novelist, flash fiction writer, scriptwriter, and now, scripts for commercials.  Oh yeah, blogs, too.  The only thing I haven’t tried to write are instruction manuals, video games, and street signs.  At this rate, it won’t be long until I get to some of those, as well, though I fear that my signs would be a little verbose.

I’m not sure what I think of these attempts at writerly reinvention are really leading to.  Is it better to sit on something for a long time and craft it out?  Or is it better to go where you will, to make stuff that’s as good as you can get it and then move on?  By nature, I think I prefer the latter, but I’m not sure if that’s me just going after immediate gratification.

I will say that finding that list shook me.  It makes me realize the importance of keeping a journal and actually reading past entries.  I wonder how that Gabe, the Gabe who actually liked his black mama jeans with the saggy bottoms would have felt if he’d known where I am now–all Old Navy Premium loos jeans and shit.  Would he be pleased or bummed?  And eight years from now, how will I be?  Will I still be looking for reinvention or will I be reinvented?  Will I be wearing mu loose jeans or, will I be wearing skinny jeans?  Scary thought.

Yoko-Ono-Fashions-for-Men

I guess there ARE worse things than black mommy jeans

Of course, I don’t know. And that’s just it: things always look so different when you’re in the process.  Whether it be mom-jeans that you used think looked good or a script that you thought was strong until you realized it wasn’t.  I guess that’s just life.  You keep evolving.  So maybe I don’t have to feel like a failure.  Maybe I will keep reinventing.  Maybe.  I just hope I won’t be wearing skinny jeans.

what fatherhood has done for me…

In observations, parenting on December 12, 2012 at 12:37 pm
oh, the horror!

oh, the horror!

It’s made me scared…more scared. And judgmental.

The other day I had a break between students, and I go get a coffee.  It’s a Boulangerie, which if you’re not from Cali, is a Disneyfied “French” bakery that was just bought out by Starbucks, which I guess makes it corporatized, as well.  It’s a big place.  Noisy.  Wood floors.  I am sitting facing a window, my headphones are on.  Behind me I hear a big family pulling tables together, but I’m not sure I was really aware of them–at least, I wasn’t until I hear a crash and then a woman making the most unholy sound.  It wasn’t a screech, not a wail, either.  I can say this honestly: the sound was that of a wounded animal.  Think pierced beluga in the pacific or a cat with a crushed leg after it’s fallen from a tree. Even as I write this, I can feel the sound in the pit of my belly.  It was the sound of horror, of loss–or at least, feared loss.

In this case, it was the sound of this mother looking at her child doing a face plant while strapped into a car seat. I turn and I see the woman’s face and then look down and I see the car seat butt-up, and a small hand wiggling out the side.  The child, as it turned out, was fine.  More freaked out than anything.  The edges of the car seat coupled with good straps kept the child in place.  But for those many seconds before someone–someone much braver than I–was willing to lift the chair up and see if the baby was ok, I thought I was going to be ill.  I thought that all that shitty coffee and the Frenchified sweet thing I was stuffing my face with up until that point, was going to splatter across that polished wood floor.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m sure I would have been moved by this before I had a kid.  But there is something so much more intense about seeing a child in that position after you have been up all night with your own, after you have handed that child over to your spouse ever so carefully because you realize how vulnerable he is, like some treasure.  NO, not LIKE a treasure.  He IS a treasure.  And well, not being a Buddhist who can just disconnect from this world and what I have in it, the fact that I have this treasure that I didn’t have before makes me scared for it.  It reminds me of a Louis CK bit in which he says that the best case scenario for any relationship is that after a life together, one of you will die before the other.  ckIt’s different with a kid, I know.  But it’s similar in the sense that when you love someone, it’s hard not to worry, not to look out for the possible threats to that loved one.

This is natural, I know.  But wait, there’s more!!

After the room returned to normal, the family recovered and stuck around and had their coffees and Frenchified sweet things, and I wanted to yell at them.  Specifically, I wanted to yell at the mother for being a dumb-ass and for being a fat-ass who loved her fucking crescent more than her baby (she wasn’t fat, but I’m just saying).  I knew it was crazy even then.  But I kept on judging her in my mind.  Here’s the highlight of that imagined rant:

of course you don’t put a car seat on a precarious wooden chair in the middle of Disney-croissant-land.

and if you’re lacking that basic common sense, then you don’t deserve your lame-ass coffee and sweet thing.

Go home.

Be ashamed.

Talking of shame, I am ashamed for thinking these things.  They are ridiculous thoughts.  I know.  But I felt them.  And damn it, what’s a blog for if not to share some of your most shameless thoughts?  I ask you.

No. Actually, I’m not asking that.  I’m actually asking this question: see below.  It’s a new WP function, a poll, so let’s try it out together.  Shall we?

what’s so scary about writing?

In humor, life, observations on December 8, 2012 at 5:55 am

Heck if I know.

That’s all I got, folks.  An abstract question and a really silly answer.  There’s nothing scary about writing, but you wouldn’t know that from the way I put off writing today.  I had a solid hour and a half–a veritable bonanza of time nowadays with The Boy and work X 2 and the other crazy things I keep trying in order to make the dinero.  But what do I do with this gift of seconds and minutes?  I squander it.

I wanted to write.  I have a 52nd story to finish.  (For those new to my blog, I made a goal in 2011 that I would produce for better or for worse, 52 original stories.  I got to 47 and The Boy was born.  Then, I wrote what I will call the Crappy 4, which brought to story 52.)  OK, now that we’re all up to speed, I have the new goal that I will write my final story before the end of the year.   I can do that.  I should be able to do that.  I should have gotten a start today.  But no dice, Rollo.

It would be one thing if I were just being a lazy-ass, preferring to play Bike Barron or Temple Run instead of doing the work.  That’s be kind of lame considering I’m a 41-year old man, but at least, I’d get some joy.  Today, I felt no joy, only fear.  But what was I scared of?

Heck if I know.

If I dig down, I guess I fear the effort involved, but I don’t mean the effort required in writing.  What I fear is the cut-off, by which I mean, when I write fiction, I cut ties with this world in order to make up another.  Problem is, I’m not part of that world.  I’m making it, but I’m not part of it.  I almost always get a kick out of writing once I start, but those first few minutes as I’m starting to disengage from my concerns, from my daily self, I feel the difficulty, and the difficulty is caused by…. in a word, loneliness, a loneliness I don’t seem able to get myself accustomed to.

Does anyone else suffer from this?  I’d love to know I’m not the only crazy person out there.  Come on, folks, share your craziness.  I needs me somes crazy.  Give it over.

what Walt Disney taught me about getting the job done

In career, humor, life, observations, Uncategorized, writing on December 5, 2012 at 5:01 am

It’s no secret that the secret to better writing is to put words on a page often and frequently.  (Yes, I now there’s some irony to what I just wrote.)  What’s also ironic is the fact that I seem to come to this conclusion every few months as if it were the first time.

Case in point: this past weekend, I applied for a Disney Living Worlds fellowship.  Or is it a grant?  Is there a difference?  Whatever it is, I applied for one.  I actually applied with two different projects.  It didn’t cost anything to apply, and there was no mention made as to a limit applications you could submit.  The really interesting thing for me is that I wrote both applications over the weekend.  These weren’t the most in-depth applications, I’ll admit. There were tight word limits, and basically, you had to explain what your project entailed and how you would incorporate multi-media into it.  Tight word limits can sometimes be more difficult because you really have to choose your words wisely.  You have to get to the point.

I’m not really sure I did a great job on these apps.  But what’s worth pointing out is that I just forced myself to get them done and turn them in.  In the end, I think that’s a lesson I’ve come late to.  There’s a quote, I think it’s Emerson.  I’m paraphrasing, but it’s something like,

“perfection is the enemy of progress.”

I’ve never done anything perfectly, but I know I’ve tried to make things so good that I’ve become paralyzed or overwhelmed or so frustrated that I have given up.  You need not look further than the hard drive of this computer, which has on it 3 versions of 2/3 of a novel, which I referenced in an earlier post. The novel was never going to be perfect.  Maybe it was never going to be good, for that matter.  But if I would have finished it, I could at least say I had a novel done and be free to move on to the next.

I know there are some who are going to argue that this is facile.

    • How do you know something is done?
    • There’s real value to sitting on something until it is as good as it can be.

To the question, I’d say that it’s done when you can’t think of anything else to do with it and when a trusted reader can’t come up with something that you think is valid.

And to the other point, DUH.

But at the same time, I’m reminded of a podcast interview I heard recently with Mark Duplass.  He’s a filmmaker, supposedly some hero of the mumblecore aesthetic.  That’s not that important. What was really cool about this podcast is that when asked about his process, Mr. Duplass basically said it’s all about being good enough.  It’s not about being perfect.  It’s about giving it your best and then moving on.  Mr. Duplass, where was your wisdom when I was struggling that beast, AKA, my novel?

So, my application this weekend.  Hey, I’m not saying it was genius.  But I had a goal of getting that thing in, and I did it.  And I’m feeling good about that.  I’m not going to let myself think I could have done better if I’d taken more time.  I’m not gonna.  And neither should you.  Go out there and get shit done.  Done, being the much more important word than shit, by the way.

 

an early new year’s resolution: SIMPLIFY, SIMPLIFY, SIMPLIFY

In career, humor, life, observations, Uncategorized, writers & books, writing on November 28, 2012 at 4:45 am

Who’s kidding who?  I’m not going to do that.  I’m genetically programmed for complex.  I like hard.  I am unsuited for calmness.

Some of this is hyperbolic, of course.  I am not a complete nutjob.  But I do have a habit of choosing difficult things.  As a kid, I decided to be a violinist–yes, a professional violinist.  More specifically, I had this idea that I’d be a soloist.  If you can’t quite imagine what that means, I would liken my chosen career path to wanting to be a professional athlete, but not just any professional.  Being a soloist is like being the top player in your sport, the Michael Jordan, the Pele, the Lance Armstrong without the doping.

You might be thinking this is impressive on my part.  Please don’t make that mistake.  I started seriously practicing at about the age of 16–soloists usually start when they are 4.  I didn’t have a great ear, either.  I practiced like the dickens, it’s true. I can say this without exaggeration: from the age of 16 to about 23, I might have missed 5 days total in the practice room.  But the truth is that I was not smart about practicing.  I was a grunter.  I was all about effort.  I took pride in how hard I worked and not in how good I sounded.

True, I got decent eventually.  By the time I stopped playing, I was good enough to gig for a living in LA.  My last year in LA, I played more Korean weddings, Jewish high holiday parties–more pick-up gigs for more local orchestras than I can tell you.  Basically, by the time I stopped playing, I was…ok.

Did I mention I had gnarly stage fright?

My need to strive beyond my talents did not stop with the violin. As a writer, I felt the same kind of calling.  I let my need for complexity cloud my judgment.  For four years, I put in hour after hour on the computer working on a novel that I didn’t have the chops to write.  I was reading The Corrections at the time and Kesey’s Sometimes a Great Notion, was rattling around my cranium.  In fact, I was trying to channel these big books as I wrote my own “big” book about a group of caretakers looking after an autistic man the year his elderly mother was dying.

Did I mention that I had some Salman Rushdie magical realism mixed in with some elements of Sound and the Fury.

I am no Faulkner…I know, you are surprised!

YES, dear reader.  WTF?  This “masterpiece” was my first attempt at a novel.  I probably could have written three novels in that amount of time if I’d just kept it simple.  I’m not saying they would have been great novels, but by just getting through a whole thing, I would have learned a lot more than writing and re-writing and tri- and quad-writing the same 2/3 of that thing.  I mean I got into writing after reading Raymond Carver and Richard Yates and Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene.  I still think they are great writers, but they are not extremely sophisticated, uber clever writers like Rushdie and Faulkner.

Did I mention that I am neither clever nor sophisticated?

an author with the skills to be complicated.

Did I mention that I have come to the conclusion in middle age that I am not exceptional?  Oh, you know that already, don’t you?

I tell you all this because I am doing it again–at least, I fear I am.  In January, I’m moving away from this site, packing up the verbal luggage and moving over to a wordpress.org self-hosted thingamajig.  Why, you ask?

I have decided I want to try and focus on something in my blog-writing.  More details will come over the next few weeks.  It’s enough to say that I have been learning the HTML and reading up about traffic and blog structure and some other tech-craziness.  I’m enjoying it, but I’m nervous I’m being complicated to keep myself from really doing the hard work of digging in.

And yet, and yet, I feel alive.  The great Joe Ponepinto, whose blog is very cool and worth a look, recently mentioned in a comment that I should just follow my bliss.  And maybe that’s the thing: I bliss out doing shit the hard way.  I don’t know if it will be good for the writing career, but I think there’s something to this strategy.  Let’s see.  I’m just hoping some of you will come over with me to the new site.  Come on!  It’ll be different, but I promise I will fill those posts with the same kind of neurotic-complex-loving love I show here.

That’s a promise.

1 scary idea writers should avoid, though I can’t…

In career, humor, life, observations, Uncategorized, writing on November 21, 2012 at 4:21 am

Recently, I have spent hours figuring out how to put columns into my posts.  I like the magazine look of…uh, magazines.  But I am a bit of a dunderhead, and so instead of learning to do it the proper way, I hack my way through some short code plug-ins and spend a lot of time–not sure why–struggling to make my posts not look like shite.

Now, from the last sentence, you might have noticed that I am spending a little too much time reading web-shite.  I never before this post have used the word, “hack,” at least not in verb-form.  I have used the word in it’s more writerly sense–as in, I don’t want to be a hack-writer who uses jargon unnecessarily because that would be…uh, hack-writing, which is very different from the idea of hacking my way through this blog, which could either refer to my sawing through something, like your patience, dear reader, or finding a workable solution.

Jesus.  I need to get out more often.  I say this, though I do not think I will get out more often because I am working my butt off trying to figure out how I can make money–more money.  And this is what the problem is.  Why am I not writing more?

Lately, I’ve come to this scary idea: what if I am not writing more because I don’t really want to be a writer?  What if, in fact, I’d rather spend my time figuring out how to make blogs look cool?  Or what if I’d rather figure out how to connect all the strangds of social media for clients, like what I am doing, or trying to do, for my writing career?

Don’t I want to write books? You know, I’m not sure I do.  I don’t obsess about books or writing.  In all honesty, if you asked me what I am obsessed about, I’d say there are two things: 1. design and 2. making more money.

Weird things to admit considering I am a writer.

So what’s going on?  Am I finding myself?  Have I just drunk some strange brew of Bay Area tech-coolaid?  Or, something else?

the key to career success: suck it often and quickly…

In career, life, observations on November 1, 2012 at 2:30 pm

start knocking

OK, this is probably not going to come as big news to many of you.  But the notion that if you want to do something well, you can’t be afraid to fail got by me somehow. I know I’ve heard this before.  Maybe it was a late-night infomercial hosted by some self-help guru. But when you boil it down, strip the idea from the cheesy guy smiling his 1000 kilowatt smile in the darkness of night, there is something to it.

I came to realize this a few weeks ago while I was at a conference for Transmedia storytellers.  For a couple days, I had been running into a guy named Donald Cager.  Donald, humble as pie, introduced himself to me as a producer of commercials.  Little did I know that Donald doesn’t just produce any commercials; he produces some of the biggest spots on TV.  If you watched the Olympics, then you probably saw his Samsung commercial about a thousand times.  I say this because it was this humble, successful guy who finally helped me figure out what I’d been missing.

It’s not uncommon for me to have more than a couple projects on the burner at once.  I just work better that way.  But when starting these things, I always waste a lot of time trying to figure out which of the two I should focus on.  More than once, I have gotten locked up and not started anything because I wanted to know which project would be the better use of time, and as I’ve gotten older, this quandary has gotten more severe.  And with each day at the conference, because I was being exposed to so many approaches, my anxiety about my next steps as a writer was increasing exponentially.

I said this to Donald.  I think I used that staid metaphor of the door.  At the conference, I was exposed to so many doors, so many ways to move forward as a writer.  Not that many of these doors would lead to success.  Most wouldn’t. I knew that.  And that truth was scaring me into paralysis.  But Donald, in his quiet way, turned it around on me.  He basically told me that I needed to open any and every door as quickly as I could.  Because the sooner I went through all the wrong doors, the sooner I’d find the right one.

I love this.  It’s amazing, but just with that little bit of wisdom, I feel so much freer than I have in a very long time.  So why didn’t I listen to those late-night self-help guys sooner?  I think they say the same thing.  Oh, that’s right.  Because they usually suck.  That, and the fact that one bit of wisdom just doesn’t make it worth the pain of looking at those blazing white smiles–made from cheese and cynicism.  I guess you get the lessons you need when you are ready for them.

Thanks, Donald.

no thanks, dude

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