The Ultimate Laziness, with a mouse click.

Oh, it's just happened to me. I am awake at Insane O'Clock, and have turned to the comfort of my keyboard. Instead of doing something productive, I checked the news (there wasn't any); checked FB (because it's just what I do, probably some insidious mental programming thingie they've done; there's an APP for that); and now I just came to a realization that would probably irritate or alarm me if I were awake enough for such things.

I just realized with relief that I have my blogger dashboard set up as a bookmark. My relief at not having to type the url is what has me concerned.

For heaven's sake. It had nothing to do with memory. I can go through the steps to get here without the friendly little icon.

I was just feeling too lazy to type.

Now, I have my lazy places. I use all the modern conveniences (except the dishwasher, at least most of the time) and I like saving labor. What I am saving it for is one of those questions that troubles me--not sure I'll need the labor-bank and I'm not sure what the exchange rate will be on some of the older labor I've saved--

Cripes, I write some drivel before dawn. I think I'll call this Vampire Writing. Anyway. On with the main theme, although I have an instinct the topics are somehow related.

Lazy. That's it. Too lazy to type a url. Glad for a point and click solution.

That means something dire for the human race. But I think I'm too lazy to follow it up with any thoughts. Thanks for reading this far; I hope it hasn't been too strenuous.

Reaching Out, and why it's so damned scary

So, I had a great experience last night. It was actually one of those quiet little confirmations that taking a chance is a pretty good idea.

Sorry. No tight rope walking, no risky investments, no dragon slaying or channel swimming. All I did was attend a writer's group for the first time. The people were friendly, the venue was fantastic, and even though I had to leave before I wanted to (work, deadlines, etc.) the overall experience was kind of like jumping into the pool and finding out the water was just fine. I think it will be a productive group to be connected to, and I think I can learn a lot from them.

And this morning, it's left me with an interesting thought. I resisted this very thing, for...well, for years, frankly. So I started looking at why.

It mostly boiled down to fear. Fear of not being good enough, fear of someone who would swoop down and take my ideas (wow, do I get the paranoid of the week award, or what?) fear of...shadows, mostly. I thought I was past that craziness, but this part of my life is sacred.

That uncovered another layer, no real shocker there. I want to protect this part of my life, this writing thing, because it's my core. The strange part of that is I can take it. I've faced rejection (what writer hasn't?), I've faced disappointment, I've faced my share of damned red dragons lurking behind doorways.

It's probably more than just that my writing life is so important to me. It's also that since I've worked for myself, I've really allowed myself to become isolated. The internet has been my main connection to the world. So I've been finding ways to get back out there, talk to actual people.

This makes me sound like some kind of weird hermit. I'm not. But the truth is, working from home means a lot of my social circle has shrunk. Some of that is ok. But I'm going to get better at what I do by finding some other folks out there who can help me be better at what I do.

And at the end of the day, there is no substitute for a good old fashioned conversation.

Critics and Critiques. Which one do we need and heed?

I have a problem with critics. I find I disagree (sometimes vehemently) with a good many of them; and yet, I find I still read their assessments.

And let's face it, there are critics everywhere. Political critics, literature and film critics, art critics. They serve their place, analyzing things so we don't have to, serving as a filter so we can use what they say to decide to check or not check out something for ourselves.

But there is a danger in letting someone else decide what has merit and what does not. I wonder how tinged with bias our own perceptions are once we've let a "professional" have a shot at telling us what they thought.

I wonder how many critics have ever penned a novel, produced a film, written a screenplay, or painted a landscape. How many critics in their chosen field have ever actually worked in a kitchen, created a clay sculpture, arranged an art exhibit with all the attendant background work it takes to even get a venue?

Granted, there are some folks out there who have earned their chops, worked in their industries, and have the balance to give a good critique. But I think perhaps they are in the minority.

It makes me think about the personal critics that rule many people's lives...teachers, preachers, parents. I wonder about the damage I've done unwittingly to my own kids, and ask for forgiveness for the critical judgments I probably put on them over the last 30 some odd years. Because the truth is, opinions are just that. Perhaps most critical reviews should start with the words "In My Opinion..."

Because at the end of the day, any work of creation is a monumental risk and effort. I respect the reviews of people who have walked it, those who still strive to create themselves, those who are willing to be under the spotlight.

But I have to hold suspect anyone who throws out criticism and doesn't have a clue what it means to do whatever they are reviewing. Politics, art, cooking, writing, dance, performance...

And I also am looking hard at not letting other people tell me what I should think. I'm smart enough to experience something for myself and make my own conclusions. So thanks for the critical views...and next time, I'll read those articles afterwards and see if we agree. It could be that I'll see something differently than they have--and that's my part of the partnership I have with the artist\author\creator\politician.

Maybe it should be mandatory that every critic has to be a creator first...what do you think?

Healing 14

I attended a book signing last night, promoting a new book by a fellow named Joe Stierheim called A Moment in Time. It was a great event, sold out all of his books, and everyone made some awesome connections.

One of the most interesting moments for me was when Joe told us a story about why he writes. He shared that like most writers, he had been "protected" by well-meaning people who told him he would never be able to make a living as a writer. At the age of fourteen, he said there was a poetry contest that he wanted to enter, but he talked himself out of it.

Then he related that a former poet laureate of the United States had a similar experience--but instead of giving in to that doubting inner voice, he pushed through it and kept writing poetry.

Joe's question at that point was "What if I had pushed through and kept writing anyway? Where would I be now?"

I noticed many heads nodding as he related this story, this place of being fourteen and making a decision based on well meaning, but probably flawed advice. And as I looked around the room, I saw a bunch of fourteen year olds in much older clothing, remembering...

I think it's time we healed fourteen. Or twelve. Or eight. Or whatever the age was when you might have heard a discouraging word, and somehow, have now coded it into "truth".

It ain't truth, Martha. It's just someone else's perspective. Pick up the pen, click over to a blank page and write, go dance, go sing, wake up that kid.

You can do it!

My Own Personal Clouds

I stepped out on the deck at 4:00 AM, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Perseid Meteor shower..

Not only did I set myself up by being just this side of late (the best viewing time was supposed to be between 2:00 and 4:00 AM; come on, I'm dedicated to nature, but probably not THAT dedicated), but the Universe seemed to oblige in obscuring my chances with a bright full moon, and a misty cloud cover.

I laughed at myself out there alone in my pajamas, listening to the August crickets. But it was cool, and rather nice. So I took myself out the front door instead of the back, eliminating some of the benevolent moon glare and peered hopefully upwards.

Clouds.

But then as I waited for the briefest of moments, I noticed stars in the spaces between the clouds. As I looked skyward, more appeared.

Actually, that was not true. They didn't appear. They were there all the time. It was only my personal cloud cover that obscured the fact that they were riding up there, steadfast, not bothered one whit by my lack of vision.

Metaphors and analogies abounded. My mind whirled with the vast implications. Then I stepped on an acorn in bare feet and my poetic thoughts turned to something else. It figures, I thought. That's what I get for philosophy before dawn.

But then, as I turned to go back inside with my sore foot, a bright meteor shot just off the corner of my eyesight. After all, that is where magic happens...

I got the joke. Personal clouds or not, stars, meteors and wonder ride just on the other side of my own bias and misty concerns. And once in a while, one pierces through with laughter just to keep us reminded.

The Art of the Expectation

So, we all have them. Expectations. Some of them make sense to other people, but in the final analysis, they probably are mostly fiction dreamed up by ourselves.

We wake up every morning with the expectation (well, at least I do) that today will be a day pretty much like the last one. Why is that? I admit that the old "sun coming up" (which it doesn't) like "clockwork" (which we invented) tends to give us a false sense of normalcy. Just watch what would happen if the sun gave it a miss one morning and skipped a day.

Ok, and the stars. Yeah, those are fixed in place, and none of the close ones seem to be approaching super nova--and if they did, it would be old news, as most of them are pretty far away. Light years, to be exact. So they don't seem to be ready to go poof anytime soon in the distant past.

Maybe this is why we expect our friends, family and people at large to do things a certain way. We get snarky when technology doesn't perform up to our expectations, when our coffee isn't hot enough, when the counter girl isn't friendly enough, when our car blatantly refuses to start. We expect the world to operate the way we want it to, and take it personally when it doesn't.

We expect our government to operate a certain way, and I bet you don't think it's operating the way you expect it to. Trouble is, most of us have a pretty individual expectation of a system made up of a lot of complexity.

I think the bigger something is, the less nimble it can be. It takes a lot longer to turn or stop something when it becomes gargantuan. Since 1910, we've gone from 92 million people to 308 million in 2010 in the United States. That's not counting the people who refused to do their census, and there are a fair number of them.

That's a lot of bodies. It's also a lot of expectations. And we have a pseudo-representative government. How could we expect it to be anything but unwieldy? Think about how complicated things got with the last five person committee you worked with, served on or had to tolerate.

And then throw instantaneous information into the mix. How often is your first knee jerk reaction the right answer? Now multiply that by 308 million people.

Yikes.

Suddenly, I think it's optimistic to expect anything to work well. So it's a gift that my tea is hot this morning, the sun looks like it's coming up despite us, and there aren't any prehistoric supernovas finally arriving on the horizon.

I expect it to be a decent day.