The Rough Draft

So it has been brought up in conversation in the last few weeks that this blog has seemed a little… well… bitter. Which led me to thinking. Am I? A little bitter to be sure but mostly, I’m disappointed. I’ve never been a fan of apathy and it seems as if it’s rife these days. So if I am bitter, it’s just because I know we can do better but only if we try.

It has been said that most men live lives of quiet desperation. I think in these politically correct times we can amend that to, “Most people.” I’m still not sure if this is true but I do know individuals who live lives that sit firmly within their grasp and a few who cradle their lives like precious children. Lives with little risk. Salt free lives… or as Billy Connolly would put it… Lives firmly within the beige.

Now I’m not saying we should all live lives of derring do or take dumb ass risks for nothing all of the time but doing something every now and again that scares you or sets your heart to racing is a good thing. It doesn’t hurt to give your soul a stir every now and then.

I’m firmly back in the fold of photography. It really is a hobby for me but it’s also an outlet for some of the creative energy I don’t burn off when I write. I firmly believe that the really great shots come at a certain cost be it risk or otherwise. I’m sure that all of the really great artists gave up a piece of their soul, their life, their fortunes and even their minds to get to that next level. Me I’ll settle for getting my heart racing every now and again.

So do whatever lifts your soul and fight back the creeping beige.

There’s a book out there called, “The Secret.” It has the solution to all of your problems within… Or so I’m told. A lot of times when I’m talking to people about being a writer, they want to know how I got stuff produced or what my writing practices are. They’d like to know my secrets.

I don’t have any writing secrets and what secrets I do have are of a personal nature, mine and mine alone to keep. That’s why they’re called secrets. You tell your secrets, they become an ethos, a paradigm or a curse.

Some try to ingratiate themselves to me by appealing to what they think is my focus of ego. I blow them off, with well practiced platitude. “There’s no answers here.” I say. “I work hard and it makes it’s own kind of luck. Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.” and always with a smile, a slow nod of the head. I am a lucky and simple fool.

But inside I think, “You are not my friend, why the fuck should I tell you anything? You think this is a game, a dodge, a cheat. You do this because you think there’s money in it. Where were you when the shit was raining down thick and fast and there was terror and uncertainty all around. I can count my friends on one hand and they’d all take a bat to your head, no questions asked and you ain’t on that fucking list.”

Then I beg off to go refill my drink. Club Soda with lime if your curious. I limit myself to one Pint of my choice when I work a room. I only drink with people I like, safer that way for everyone concerned, me especially.

You are not my friend. You are not me. You are weak, scared and confused. You think it is a popularity contest, not a battle, not a war, not a firefight and it is why you will fail. You stand on dying ground and don’t know it. There will be nobody to stand over the cooling corpse of your dreams, least of all me.

There is no secret, only struggle and the reward may not be worth the cost and I’ll will keep it to myself when I get there…

You’ll just have to figure it out yourself.