Prolific Aspirations?

This post may be a bit preliminary. I'm still sorting this one out:

For a long time in my life, I have admired very prolific people with large bodies of work. People like Bill Leeb, who has been in or started 9 different bands, or Frank Zappa, who has perhaps the largest discography of all time. I admire people who espouse hard work and dedication as the secret to their success, such as athletes and other successful individuals.

But this admiration is in direct conflict with the other half of me, the half that says slow down, relax, don't stress, have as few desires as possible. The 'calm' me doesn't like to work, and is content not to be successful. This, in turn, is in conflict with the part of me that wants to succeed at something.

But, do I want to be famous? Maybe I do. But until yesterday, I simply admired famous, successful, hard-working, prolific people, and felt guilty about not being those things myself. It then occurred to me, finally, after many years of this, that it is possible that I do admire them, but maybe I don't actually want to be like them. Am I ready to give up my "balanced" life to dedicate everything to one goal? I know that many areas of my life would suffer for the sake of success, if indeed success is even attainable purely through hard work (talent is a difficult metric to guage).

It's just a thought. I had never considered my admiration in this way. My initial goal, "finish one book, at some point" is much more reasonable than the prolificness I coveted and guilted over.

American Dream

As I wait for my brain stew to bubble up into broth, I've found my mind returning to the original basis for my venture: why would I choose to pursue a lifelong dream?

Dreams may be appealing, but most people find their pursuit to be unrealistic. For a while, even the cultural idea of dream pursuit was re-appropriated: the term "American Dream" became synonymous with marriage, 2.4 kids, a dog, a house, and a yard with a white picket fence.

But there is a much more general, long-lasting, and pervasive dream ideal in America: the idea that you can be anything you want to be. All that is required, sayeth common wisdom, is hard work, dedication, believing in yourself, and never giving up. Indeed, far pre-dating the picket fences, America was known as "the land of opportunity."

Unfortunately, this idyllic picture of what existence and opportunities for individuals can be like stumbles on many of reality's barriers. While we would like hard work and dedication to translate into success, and it can, it is not a guaranteed result. Much of traditional success is dependent upon networking. (I am not usually one to decry nepotism, because I view it as understandably lower comfort with the unfamiliar.) I have long understood that making art is one thing, but getting "discovered" for your art is another.

Despite the realities that face dream-chasers, there is nevertheless typically a desire to pursue an ideal life-goal. Shortly after I made over my own list of long-term goals, I happened across this poem by Langston Hughes:

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

I placed this poem right below my list of goals so that I would remember not to defer my dream.

As for the specific dream of writing, itself, my best friend and co-author was also influential. He sent me this:

It was an encounter with a magician that changed my life forever and made me a writer.

During the Labor Day week of 1932 a favorite uncle of mine died; his funeral was held on the Labor Day Saturday. If he hadn't died that week, my life might not have changed because, returning from his funeral at noon on that Saturday, I saw carnival tent down by Lake Michigan. I knew that down there, by the lake, in his special tent, was a magician named Mr. Electrico.

Mr. Electrico was a fantastic creator of marvels. He sat in his electric chair every night and was electrocuted in front of all the people, young and old, of Waukegan, Illinois. When the electricity surged through his body he raised a sword and knighted all the kids sitting in the front row below his platform. I had been to see Mr. Electrico the night before. When he reached me, he pointed his sword at my head and touched my brow. The electricity rushed down the sword, inside my skull, made my hair stand up and sparks fly out of my ears. He then shouted at me, "Live forever!"

I thought that was a wonderful idea, but how did you do it?

The next day, being driven home by my father, fresh from the funeral, I looked down at those carnival tents and thought to myself, "The answer is there. He said 'Live forever,' and I must go find out how to do that." I told my father to stop the car. He didn't want to, but I insisted. He stopped the car and let me out, furious with me for not returning home to partake in the wake being held for my uncle. With the car gone, and my father in a rage, I ran down the hill. What was I doing? I was running away from death, running toward life.

When I reached the carnival grounds, by God, sitting there, almost as if he were waiting for me, was Mr. Electrico. I grew, suddenly, very shy. I couldn't possibly ask, How do you live forever? But luckily I had a magic trick in my pocket. I pulled it out, held it toward Mr. Electrico and asked him if he'd show me how to do the trick. He showed me how and then looked into my face and said, "Would you like to see some of those peculiar people in that tent over there?" I said, "Yes."

He took me over to the sideshow tent and hit it with his cane and shouted, "Clean up your language!" at whoever was inside. Then, he pulled up the tent flap and took me in to meet the Illustrated Man, the Fat Lady, the Skeleton Man, the acrobats, and all the strange people in the sideshows.

He then walked me down by the shore and we sat on a sand dune. He talked about his small philosophies and let me talk about my large ones. At a certain point he finally leaned forward and said, "You know, we've met before."

I replied, "No, sir, I've never met you before."

He said, "Yes, you were my best friend in the great war in France in 1918 and you were wounded and died in my arms at the battle of the Ardennes Forrest. But now, here today, I see his soul shining out of your eyes. Here you are, with a new face, a new name, but the soul shining from your face is the soul of my dear dead friend. Welcome back to the world."

Why did he say that? I don't know. Was there something in my eagerness, my passion for life, my being ready for some sort of new activity? I don't know the answer to that. All I know is that he said, "Live forever" and gave me a future and in doing so, gave me a past many years before, when his friend died in France.

Leaving the carnival grounds that day I stood by the carousel and watched the horses go round and round to the music of "Beautiful Ohio." Standing there, the tears poured down my face, for I felt that something strange and wonderful had happened to me because of my encounter with Mr. Electrico.

I went home and the next day traveled to Arizona with my folks. When we arrived there a few days later I began to write, full-time. I have written every single day of my life since that day 69 years ago.

I have long since lost track of Mr. Electrico, but I wish that he existed somewhere in the world so that I could run to him, embrace him, and thank him for changing my life and helping me become a writer.

- Ray Bradbury, December 2001

Madeleine L'Engle's book, "Herself," a gift from my mother, also emphasizes writing every day. I know that this is particularly important for writers, but I suspect it matters no matter which dream a person selects to try to make real.

Are Dreams Supposed to be "Fun"?

For my co-author, writing his books is his hobby. He wants it to be fun. If it were not fun, then it wouldn't be a very good hobby, and he would find something else to do.

And yet, I was baffled when he asked me, last night, whether or not I was having fun. Yes, I told him: but fun isn't enough.

At the most basic level, why do some people choose (as I have) to at least attempt to live out their dreams? Why is a dream desirable? By definition, the things that people dream of doing are what they believe they will most enjoy, they are most passionate about, and most desire to do.

The standard alternative is to find something to do that you don't hate but that is "just work." This creates a personal dichotomy: your work is not really who you are (usually), but it is a thing that takes up a lot of your time.

Pursuing a dream, by contrast, arranges your time so that it is in maximal accord with who you are.

All pursuits require work. If I washed windows for pay - which I don't want to do - it would be work. I'm trying to write books, which is exactly what I want to do, but it's still work. The difference is that, for me, writing books is fun.

But is fun enough? When my spouse asks me about my work, she doesn't ask: "Did you have fun?" Instead, she asks: "Were you productive?"

When you're in the business of attempting to do what you most want to do in life, having fun is a given. By definition, I chose to go this route because it would the most satisfying and the most fun.

Fun, I asserted to my friend, is not a measure of a fulfilled life. People feel fulfilled when they are productive, when they have accomplished something. In my case, I feel productive when I make progress towards finishing a book. Even if I was a construction worker, and I played a only a tiny part in building something, that is still productivity, and it's more fulfilling than the converse (a lack of productivity).

I also asserted that part of this productivity and fulfillment is tied to bringing my work to its natural conclusion. If I make art and stick it in a closet without sharing it, it has not realized its productive potential. I may have added to myself, but I have not participated in the human community. I haven't added to the discussion of values or the morphing universal ball of creativity in the human consciousness. That is the reason for my goal: to make art to share.