Cafe 42 Blog

About Face—A Dog Story

by jcafesin, posted in aging, dogs, pet adoption, pets

I got her at the pound on my 26th birthday, a fluff-ball Shepherd mix with big brown eyes, floppy ears, and a perfect black diamond dead in the center of her tan forehead. She was just seven weeks old, not yet ready for adoption. I lied to get her out. They found her in the San Fernando hills and thought she was feral, but I told them she was mine and I’d lost her on a hike up near Mt. Wilson.

I named her Killer Dog Face. Killer as in cool. Dog because she was one. And Face after a term of endearment my mother used to call me. I figured she deserved three names like most everyone else had, but I called her by her last name almost all the time.

My beautiful Face.

Over two feet tall and 70 pounds by her first birthday, her paws and ears remained adorably exaggerated against her slender but muscular frame, and for almost ten years everyone thought she was still a puppy. An impressive athlete, she could pace me on my bike at 25 miles an hour, and clear a five-foot wall or a six-foot wide river in one fluid motion.

I worked from home, so we were together practically 24/7. Tail would be swishing and she’d have her happy smile on when she’d periodically lope in throughout the day from sunbathing or chasing squirrels and crows in the backyard. She’d smooch her muzzle into my thigh, then rub her body along my legs rather cat-like, soliciting for strokes. I loved her company, felt sated when she was with me. Face was easy to be with, required little and listened well. And she always made me feel important, and valued.

I taught her to Stay. Drop. Leave it! And that was about it. Stupid dog tricks were degrading. She accompanied me everywhere, muzzle out the window, jowls flapping in the wind while she took it all in, reminding me to get out of my head and absorb the moments at hand. She greeted most everyone with a tail wag and her happy grin. Face was a gentle lass and she genuinely liked pretty much everybody. I gave her a home, and the attention she required for her security. She made me feel wanted, appreciated, safer, and not so alone. Forever forward, our relationship will remain one of the most stable, even exchanges of love and respect I will ever know.

I found out about the slip disks in her spine a few months after her 10th birthday. We had gone hiking in the coastal mountains of Marin and she took off after something pacing us along a grove of redwoods. When I called for her, she was way down in a gulch, and I could tell she was struggling to make it back up the hill to me. The vet said she’d probably messed up her back, and that even though it was treatable with vitamin supplements, eventually she would get arthritis from the bad disks pinching her nerves. And though it took another five years, the vet turned out to be right.

I never expected to be faced with having to put her down. I assumed she’d go off a cliff chasing a squirrel or miss when jumping over a river and I wouldn’t be around to save her. Everyone kept telling me it was time. At 16 she had hip problems, and walking problems, and was becoming incontinent. I felt sad for her a lot, watching her struggle to get up or stay up while excreting. And then I had my son. And Face wasn’t the baby anymore. And she was sad a lot too. Her health problems went from bad to worse and picking up her poop all over the house where an infant crawled was more than just disgusting. It was a health hazard.

I’ve always thought that if I ever got a terminal disease, I would choose to end my life before I was unable to do so. Before I lost all my faculties I’d go in the garage and turn on the car or find the right drugs to take me over the edge. It never dawned on me to think differently until I was faced with the responsibility of having to make that choice for a loved one.

I sat on the floor next to my dog in her newly confined space in the tile entry wishing she could tell me what to do. She lay in her bed with her head in my lap as I scratched her muzzle, then behind her ears. She rolled onto her side for me to scratch her belly. Her pained expression turned to momentary bliss as I gently stroked her, recalling some of our time together. Yellowstone; Breckenridge; Yosemite; the Grand Canyon; watching her tear after birds on the countless shorelines we’d strolled. We’d shared some grand adventures, but mostly quiet exchanges of affection, like the one we were sharing right then. Perhaps these moments — the times I stroked her or rubbed her belly made living in pain worth it. Who was I to facilitate her death? I was suddenly torn by the choice I had to make.

I had her put down eight months after her 16th birthday. She couldn’t walk. Her hind legs kept giving out. She wasn’t eating, or even drinking much anymore. I made the call on a Saturday morning. A certified veterinarian came to my house with a truck, complete with a metal table and loaded with medical equipment. I carried Face to the truck and placed her on the table, then stood there stroking her and crying. The doctor softly informed me that he would be giving my dog a tranquilizer, then taking her to his office where he would administer the fatal cocktail that would kill her. He assured me she would drift into blackness forever without waking. I didn’t ask what they’d do with her body. I didn’t want to know.

I held my dog’s head in my hands while the vet administered the tranquilizer. “Thank you for sharing your life with me, for being my friend,” I whispered to her as the doctor removed the needle from her hindquarters. “I love you. I will think of you often. I’ll miss you terribly, my beauty. Goodbye, sweet Face.”

She lay on the cold metal table and stared at me until her eyes closed. I stroked her head one last time, lay my hand on the black diamond marking on her head and kissed her between the eyes.

As I left the truck the doctor assured me I’d made the right decision, the “humane choice.” I stood at the curb until the truck pulled away, held my arms clasped on top of my head to hold in my brain, and contain my emotions. My quiet street was deserted again, and I looked around for my dog to come inside with me when it hit me, my Killer Dog Face was gone. My arms came down and with it any facade of composure. I sank to the sidewalk sobbing. I must have sat there for 20 minutes crying, until I got up and started walking, then running.

I ran as fast and hard as I could, for as long as I could, trying to outrun reality, trying to outrun my grief. My beautiful Face was dead, the first loss of a loved one I’d ever experienced, and the idea of her gone from my life was so profoundly empty, black, lonely, that it made me physically ill by the time I got to the bridge. I stopped in the center and threw up over the side into the L.A. wash.

When I finished vomiting I stood gripping the cool metal railing of the bridge and staring down at the thin stream of water below. “I HATE YOU!” I screamed. It was dusk by then. No one was around. Not a whole lot of people even knew about that bridge. At one end was an upscale residential neighborhood, on the other were exclusive condos. “You killed her and I HATE YOU!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, knowing I wasn’t speaking to anyone, nothing was hearing me.

“May I help you, Miss?” He asked softly, but it startled me anyway. I hadn’t seen him approach. He had come across [the bridge] from the condo side. He was Indian, from India, middle-aged, with soft brown eyes and dark, close cropped hair. I think he thought I was going to jump off the bridge.

“My dog died,” I told him. I started crying hard again hearing that reality aloud. I don’t know why I told him. So often when people ask we’re supposed to pretend we’re fine because they really don’t want to know anyway. “I really loved her.”

He nodded, let a few moments pass in silence then said, “My aunt died last week. I’m still very sad. I miss her very much.” He stood a few feet from me, his head slightly cocked to one side. He let his eyes rest on mine.

“I’m sorry about your aunt,” was all I could think of to say. The man had put his aunt on par with my dog, and I was humbled, and grateful.

“I’m sorry about your dog,” he said. “I hope your sadness will temper in time with good memories.” He gave a slight bow and moved across the bridge.

I watched him until he disappeared into the neighborhood beyond, and left the bridge soon after him. On my way home I let my mind wander over my time with my Killer Dog Face. I cried. I even smiled once or twice through the tears.

My sadness has tempered over the years. Most times when I think of my beautiful Face the memories are sweet. But to this day, 20 years later, the pain of her loss still fills me with unmitigated terror, a now ever-present awareness of the enormous cost of love.

Atheism and Morality

by jcafesin, posted in christianity, Uncategorized

An Atheist on Morality…

Einstein did not believe in God, as many [mistakenly] claim.

Albert Einstein said, “My position concerning God is that of an agnostic.” He clarified, “The word God is, for me, nothing more than the expression and product of human weaknesses, the Bible a collection of honorable, but still primitive legends. No interpretation no matter how subtle can (for me) change this.”

Atheists don’t believe in God either. Not any god/s. Ever. Unlike Agnostics, open to the possibility of a ‘higher power,’ or ‘collective, sentient being,’ Einstein believed in neither. Agnostic is politically correct, less threatening than Atheist, especially during Albert’s time, born a Jew, and existing on federal and university funding.

I am an Atheist. I do not recognize the Old or New Testament, and related works illuminating the adventures of a divine being as anything more than fiction — parables by some wise, some ignorant, but guaranteed partisan male scribes with an agenda to dominate and control others.

So, when I need money, [as an Atheist] why don’t I go rob someone? Or shoplift?

When I’m attracted to my neighbor’s husband, why don’t I hit on him, get intimate if he’s into it? 

When I get pissed off at the driver on their cellphone that just cut me off, why don’t I just shoot her?

Snatch & Run, illicit affairs, even murder these days, and the odds of getting caught for these crimes are somewhat nominal if done discreetly. Fear of being busted is not the main motivation that prevents me from committing these, and ‘lesser’ crimes, like lying, cheating, and behaviors that most would agree, religious or not, are moral infractions.

If I believe I answer to no higher power, where do I get my morality?

Einstein said, “We have to content ourselves with our imperfect knowledge and understanding and treat values and moral obligations as a purely human problem — the most important of all human problems.”

Without a priest, rabbi, or holy man telling me what to think and how to vote, and with no guidance from an omniscient god, or unbiased media outlet, I must consider my moral obligations. 

Why should I bother, and how do I know ‘right from wrong’ without a ‘divine doctrine’ to guide me?

If my parents had not gifted me life, and their parents before them…etc., I would not be here now, emersed in this experience of living. I am born owing Humanity and everything on this planet that supports our life here. We all are. All of us have a moral obligation to do our part to ensure the human race survives, and gift those to be the experience of being human.

Humans are social beings. It is mandatory we work together to survive and even thrive. We require a social structure — laws, and rules of conduct with mutually agreed-upon baselines we all must practice to partner. Breaking these rules annihilates our trust in each other, corrupting the very foundation on which relationships are built.

As an Atheist, why don’t I steal?

Do Not Steal is [generally] a mutually agreed-upon baseline. Contrary to religious rhetoric, it is not a biblical notion by some partisan scribe. Way before the written word, it proved to be a sensible rule to build trust.

I used to shoplift. My older sister showed me how when I was 7, and I stole from the local art supply store a few times until I got busted for pocketing Prismacolor pencils. The shop clerk called my mother instead of the cops. Riding home with my mom that afternoon, she explained to me that I was robbing her, my dad, and most everyone else, including myself because the store passed on the lost income from shoplifting by increasing the cost of their products. 

I created a rift with my mom, who was disappointed in me for stealing when she ‘taught me better than that.’ I created a rift with the art supply shop clerk who I saw often as a frequent customer of the store. And with my mom’s information, I understood I was serving no one shoplifting, perhaps especially myself.

Trust is the foundation of all relationships. It encourages communication, connection, and intimacy. Intimacy incentivizes reproduction. Having children ensures the human race continues to exist. (Most of us have heard the derisive term “Breeders,” referring to parents, but the absurdity of this view is lost on the idiots who use this word, as they could not utter it if they’d never been born.)

As an Atheist, why don’t I screw my neighbor’s husband?

I’ve been married for 27 years, and I have not and will never have an affair. Why? Thou shalt not commit adultery (Exodus 20:14) is not strictly biblical either. Ancient scribes adopted this notion as law from observing 200,000 years of human history.

If I have an affair with my neighbor’s husband (or wife), I am participating in creating a rift in their marriage. Even if our affair goes undiscovered, it changes the dynamic between the married couple with an intimate third now part of their once exclusive, mutually agreed-upon partnership. The rift generates a ripple effect of discord that touches the lives of many, even the adulterers, dividing households, destroying friendships, business relationships, and sometimes lead to war. 

Humans must work together to survive and thrive. War in our house or our nation is divisive and counterproductive to our continued evolution.

As an Atheist, why don’t I shoot the driver on her cell?

I fantasize about it sometimes, don’t you? Vaporizing at the idiot driver in front of you going 45 miles an hr in the fast lane while she’s texting. Seriously, I want her off the road, gone from harming anyone with her sheer arrogance in acting as if she is the One who can manage driving when statistically she is the cause of most accidents today. The cross dangling from her neck neglected to instill the value system Jesus preached: “Love your neighbor as yourself,” (Mark 12:31).

It is our moral obligation to watch out for each other. Caring for others beyond ourselves is part of what makes our social structure work. If that bitch behind the wheel on her cell hurts me, or my kids, or anyone I care about, I’m going to want to hurt her. It’s human nature to want to hurt those who have hurt us. Hurting each other, whether by thoughtlessness or intent threatens our survival and our ability to thrive.

Religion did not invent morality.

Our collective value system, the laws and rules of engagement most of us live by, religious or not, may have been written by biblical scribes, but not invented by them. The history of humanity has shown us what works and what doesn’t to preserve and encourage our evolution.

“…treat values and moral obligations as a purely human problem,” Einstein said. In other words, morality is determined by humans, not handed down from on-high by some obscure being requiring blind obedience invented by partisan men looking to control the masses.

Praying for less extreme weather [from global warming], or lunatics with AR-15s to stop mass killings, or for equitable socioeconomics won’t change anything. Even if you don’t text or scroll while driving, or participate in sexual affairs, or steal, we all have a moral obligation to ensure life continues here long after we’re dead. We owe those that follow us the complex and spectacular journey of being human that we have been gifted.

Atheist or religious, we all must recognize and actualize our moral obligations to each other and this planet for humanity to survive, and thrive.

— 

Cited Notable Facts:

Murder rates are lower in more secular nations and higher in more religious countries where belief in God is deep and widespread. (Jensen 2006; Paul 2005; Fajnzylber et al. 2002; Fox and Levin 2000)

Within U.S., the states with the highest murder rates tend to be highly religious, such as Louisiana and Alabama, but the states with the lowest murder rates tend to be among the least religious in the country, such as Vermont and Oregon. (Ellison et al. 2003; Death Penalty Information Center, 2008)

Rates of most violent crimes tend to be lower in the less religious states and higher in the most religious states. (United States Census Bureau, 2006)

The top 50 safest cities in the world, nearly all are in relatively non-religious countries, and of the eight cities within the United States that make the safest-city list, nearly all are located in the least religious regions of the country. (Mercer Survey, 2008)

Domestic terrorists of the American far right are driven by zeal for heretical distortions of Christian theology. (Paul de Armond, DOJ, 1999) Christian nationalism [is] a serious and growing threat to our democracy. (Robert P. Jones, TIME Magazine, 2022)

Marketing Religion blog post with additional cited notable facts.

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

New Book Review

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

New Book Review for A MARRIAGE FABLE:

Journey Toward Enlightenment
If you’re a fan of magical realism like I am, you will enjoy reading this mystical story. A quick read with plenty of drama kept me engaged. It’s a story filled with equal parts regret and redemption. It always feels good when a narcissist jerk gets a taste of his own medicine, and feels even better when this self-absorbed deplorable gets a chance to be a better man. Will he accept this new choice? I’ll never tell. Ask the genie. Do yourself a favor and read this well-written story and find out if there is hope for “this day and every day forward.”
–Ingrid Hart

A modern adaptation of A Christmas Carol, A MARRIAGE FABLE is a novella, another tall tale of the powerful genie Finnegus Boggs, and his lessons on love that inspires Andrew Wyman, a typical modern-day husband nearing his 25th wedding anniversary, to become a better man.

“A Marriage Fable does for Valentine’s Day what A Christmas Carol did for Christmas Day. A Must Read romantic fantasy!”
–BJ Fera, Goodreads

Married? Wish He Was…Better?

by jcafesin, posted in marriage

A modern twist on a Christmas Carol, A MARRIAGE FABLE is a novella, another tall tale of the powerful genie, Finnegus Boggs, and his lessons on love that inspires Andrew Wyman, a typical modern-day husband nearing his 25th wedding anniversary, to become a better man.

New #Review:

Journey Toward Enlightenment

If you’re a fan of magical realism like I am, you will enjoy reading this mystical story. A quick read with plenty of drama kept me engaged. It’s a story filled with equal parts regret and redemption. It always feels good when a narcissist jerk gets a taste of his own medicine, and feels even better when this self-absorbed deplorable gets a chance to be a better man. Will he accept this new choice? I’ll never tell. Ask the genie. Do yourself a favor and read this well-written story and find out if there is hope for “this day and every day forward.”

–Ingrid Hart

“A Marriage Fable does for Valentine’s Day what A Christmas Carol did for Christmas Day. A Must Read romantic fantasy!”
– BJ Fera—Goodreads

On Networking

by jcafesin, posted in Marketing, Small Business Marketing, sociology, stanford, startup, startups, technology, UC Berkeley, Uncategorized, writers

My second job out of college I was the Art Director for 1928 Jewelry Co. The company is still alive and vital today, quite a monument to startup lore. My boss, Fred Burglass, was the best boss I’ve ever had. Funny. Kind. Patient. Smart. I really loved that man. He was like a father to me, taught me many things about marketing, business, and people. Yet I still struggle to adhere to possibly his greatest lesson.

I’d been working there over a year and had neglected to attend any of the executive parties the company threw in their beach house in Malibu. Fred called me into his office one afternoon and insisted I come to the upcoming holiday party, as it was part of my job to schmooze with our current and potential new buyers, and my executive co-workers.

The Friday night before the Saturday party I called my assistant into my office. She’d wanted to go to the party, so I suggested she pretend that she’d come with me. I asked her if anyone was looking for me there, like our boss, Fred, to tell them she just saw me on the beach, or on the deck, or downstairs talking with the Macy’s buyer. I thought I was being clever, outsmarting Fred by telling him I’d be there, and then setting up my assistant to lie for me so he’d never know I wasn’t. The Malibu property was an estate home and easy to get lost in. My assistant was charming and smart and would have no problem pulling it off.

Monday morning Fred called me in his office. I know you weren’t there on Saturday night, he began. But the truth is, you’re just screwing yourself. You want to build your career, maybe your own company down the line, or even write novels full time? Business success, in whatever you choose to do, requires networking, he assured me.

Sadly, I’d pretty much tuned him out. Network. Network. Network. Building relationships is the only way you’ll propel your career forward, Fred consistently preached, so I’d heard all this before.

Problem was, I’ve always been a recluse. An artist by nature and trade, I likely landed in the arts because I have a hard time being with people. I suck at small talk. And I’ve learned getting too personal with questions or opinions is a fast way to shut down dialog. It’s exhausting walking the line of popular decorum, putting on that public face and pretending I believe the guy, or am even interested in how successful he thinks his startup is going to be when he doesn’t even know the SaaS he’s built is already being done by someone else. Ever hear of Competitive Analysis? I want to ask him, but don’t. I used to, but it wasn’t received well.

I give myself all kinds of excuses for not networking. I’m just not good with people. I’m better at creating than chatting. I’m an empath—get too much input around people so I need to limit my contact. But I know it’s all bullshit. You are a brilliant creator, Fred used to tell me. But no one will know that if you don’t meet the right people who recognize your talent and connect you with others to help you exploit it. You must network!

He was right, of course. Digital advertising—Facebook to Google to TikTok—has a very low ROI, generally between .05 – 1.5%. Print is usually higher, but not by a lot, assuming the targeting and messaging are equally tight. Building relationships in-person or online can yield far greater ROI, if done right. Amazon built an empire on exceptional customer service, eliminating the risk of online purchasing by making returns easy, garnering staunch brand advocates. Shark Tank candidates aren’t on the show just for VC money. They’re there for Lori Greiner’s connection to the shopping channel, QVC. The tech entrepreneurs want Mark Cuban’s contacts in the Silicon Valley community.

While networking ROI may seem harder to quantify than digital ads or even direct mail, consistently talking with people in your industry [and related industries] at meetups, SIG meetings, trade shows, webinars, conferences, biz and tech talks, and even office parties, over time will yield better ROI—broader brand recognition and more sales—than any other form of marketing/advertising.

Starting a startup, or finding a job or getting clients, the more you network with your industry and target markets, the greater your odds of building a thriving business. After all, it’s not what you know, but who you know that will help you pave your path to success.

A Little Kindness

by jcafesin, posted in lonliness, parenting, psychology, sociology, Uncategorized

The other day I was running my usual route and a woman pulled her car out of a business park driveway and blocked my path. The instant she saw me approaching she pulled her car back, allowing me room to continue running on the sidewalk instead of into the street to get around her. I smiled. Waved thanks as I passed in front of her car. She smiled and waved back. Felt nice, made the rest of my run less jarring, lighter somehow. Simple really, but oh, what a simple little kindness can do…

Most every day someone does something kind; lets us into their lane on the highway; opens a door, holds an elevator; Likes our update or post; simple acts of kindness that personify our potential for goodness. And while this may seem small on the surface, the residual effects of these displays of caring build trust, connecting us to each other, reminding us we are not invisible but valued, and giving us hope in our humanity.

We hear about the bad all the time. We hear about the good, too, but on the large scale, like doctors going to Nepal after the quake, or philanthropic superstars and their latest causes. But it’s really the little acts of kindness that unite us, everyday simple actions that show we care for one another, and the world we inhabit, that build a solid foundation for our race to thrive.

What simple act of caring did you give or receive today?

Please SHARE the act of kindness here in comments, and exchange a little hope…

The Folly of Perception

by jcafesin, posted in children, Family, family life, K-12, Kids, love, Middle School, parenting, parents, raising kids, Tween

I’ve been on the outside looking in since I was a little kid. Failing to assimilate, I worked at cultivating unique and different. After achieving this coveted perception, I no longer wish to possess it.

Unique often translates into strange. And as the mother of a 10 and an 8 year old, I do not want to be perceived as strange or different. I want to blend like homogenized milk and give my kids the platform to fit in, be a part of. What I don’t want is for either of my children to be “that kid with the weird mom,” though I fear I may already be there.

My kids still hold my hand, and not just in parking lots or crossing the street. They both still love to snuggle. I am their first choice to talk to, confide in, way beyond their dad, which makes me feel valued, respected and deeply humbled all at the same time. I realize this level of intimacy probably won’t [and perhaps shouldn’t] last as they grow and find their own path, but I don’t want my kids to ever be ashamed of me. I want to be proud of them. I want them to be proud of me.

I try to fit in. I go to the soccer games and the ballet classes and I wait around with the other parents and try to blend. But I don’t. And I get that they notice I don’t. I look different. I’m one of the oldest among them, by a good margin. My kids came late, after six pregnancy losses. I dress for comfort so most everything I have is rather loose. I don’t wear make-up. My hair is long and fine and all over the place. It refuses to stay pulled back in the scrunchy. I never quite look ‘put together.’

But looks aren’t the only thing that separates me.

Through the years I’ve come to realize that I don’t think like most people. The glass wall between me and most of humanity is not just me being paranoid. There is a casualness the parents seem to have with one another as they discuss their kids, or some celebrity or popular new show. I stand there and nod my head when it seems appropriate, but I don’t watch much TV, and really don’t care that Tyler is playing basketball now which conflicts with his sister’s dance schedule.

I’ve tried engaging more personally, ask about jobs, interests outside of family, broached news and current events, but taking a position and endeavoring to discuss it has mostly been met with polite blank stares. Everyone is careful with their words—politically correct and upbeat. I’m neither, and over the years I’ve learned to shut up to avoid discord. The conversations usually segue back to their kids and related activities around family, school, church, which as atheists we don’t attend. I invariably check out of the exchange and focus on the event at hand and cheering on my children.

The game or recital ends but everyone stays and continues talking. I’m on the outside again, feels like I’m lurking while I linger to give my kids time to play. I stand there watching them all integrate, proud of my children for choosing to, and of myself for giving them the opportunity when I’d rather just leave. I watch the parents gaily chat and wish I fit in like that. The folly of unique and different is it’s really quite lonely out here.

On Writing Fiction

by jcafesin, posted in Authors, careers, copywriter, Creativity, Emerging Authors, indie authors, Indie-Press, Indie-publishers, kindle, Marketing, money, Publishing, readers, Uncategorized, writers, Writing

Am I two inches from the floor I can’t see, or the next step is a 200 ft drop?

Been fighting myself over this since I started writing fiction. I face this battle every damn day I sit in front of my laptop, the cursor blinking at me, waiting patiently for me to decide if I should quit fine writing today, and go back to writing copy, because unlike continuing to write fiction, a ‘real’ job will get my kids through college.

Then the voice of Fantasy taunts: “It is possible if you keep writing and marketing your fiction that you’ll get well known enough to make a living as a fine writer… I could be an inch from the ground right now… it’s possible…”

This voice is evil. A demon. The idiot in my head that keeps me fine writing. People who’ve read me, and contacted me with praise, they too encourage my stupidity, bolster my Fantasy voice that spurs me on to continue writing fiction, even though I don’t make any real money at it, and likely never will. The more I’m purchased, or even just read online, the more I’m ripped off. Hundreds of affiliate marketing sites pop up when searching my name now, offering downloadable PDFs of my work. Free.

I dream of making fine writing my sole focus, market only my books, and quit taking on marketing gigs. But I don’t. The smarter part of me knows that focusing my creative energy fine writing puts me precariously on the precipice of that 200 ft drop in income.

I write to be read. So, not making an income, as long as I’m read, which I am more and more, wouldn’t really bother me, except I need money.

My Fantasy demon goes to war with my voice of Reason daily. The battle goes something like this:

What needs to get done today?

Well, you should get the, ­(fill in current project), stuff started/done.

Or, you could write The Power Trip.

Hmm…

Fantasy is so much better than reality. It’s why I write—to escape here, into a world that’s never boring, tedious, tiring, like the real one is so often.

I’m told by selling authors that I should pick a genre and write religiously to that genre to market myself more effectively. In fact, series are even better. I must write series. Romantic detective series, or dystopian fantasies with a strong female lead, as women empowerment is all the rage for the foreseeable future. Over the last 10 years I’ve been writing to publish, I’ve watched genre and series writers become known using the Freemium marketing model. Give away the first in the series and charge for the next book, and then spend the next ten years writing the same basic tale with the same cast of characters over and over.

Shoot me now if being a successful writer means traveling the Freemium series road. Fiction should evoke feelings, thinking, create new ideas (like H.G. Wells, whose words have been actualized into today’s tech). How can an author hope to achieve this, focused on production writing for sales, instead of substantive content? I want to read about complex characters in the first book, learn about them, from them, and about myself. I don’t want to read characterizations where actual people never emerge from the repetitive story line.

My Twitter profile says: Novelist. Essayist. Realist. Idealist. A recent follower inquired how I am both a realist and idealist simultaneously. “Doesn’t that make you, well, like crazy?”

It’s true. I’m crazy. I get it. And it’s also true that between Fantasy and Reality is the Grand fucking Canyon. The problem is, I can’t seem to get off the wire of Hope that bridges them.

On Self-Doubt

by jcafesin, posted in aarp, addiction, aging, atheism, atheists, Authors, careers, depression, Emerging Authors, Emotional Intelligence, Entrepreneurship, parenting, psychology, relationships, writers

I had a meltdown about writing—the process of—this morning. Simultaneously, my son, a recent computer science graduate, did too—about job hunting.

He emailed me while I’m melting down:

I’m applying for jobs and contacting these people but when absolutely no one contacts me back I feel like I’m sinking. I just feel like a fucking failure.

I emailed him back:

The only thing I know that works for me to shed feelings of doubt is WRITING them down. I’m doing that now. Literally. I had a meltdown this morning so I’m journaling. I will for a page or so, then get on with watching Twitch streamers to educate myself before I continue writing the Power Trip—which is what I melted down about this morning.

From my journal:

‘The absolute hardest part about writing fiction is shutting out the voices in my head that tell me I am not good enough to write this:

  • I’ll never get this right.
  • It’s too complex.
  • It’ll take too much research.
  • I’m too fragmented.
  • The subject won’t be topical if it takes too long to write.
  • I can’t DO this.
  • I keep losing the string.
  • I get too wrapped up in superfluous details.
  • I don’t get to the point quick enough.
  • I’m too heady.
  • Too technical.
  • Too too too…
  • Give it up. Too much work you’ll never finish anyway.
  • This is stupid to pursue.
  • You are wasting your time, not living your best life.
  • You’ve been working at this too long and are still nowhere…’

His email back:

This is exactly what I freak out about as well. Just replace writing with coding.

Me:

Thing is, you have to combat the bullshit voices in your head. They are half-truths. Not lies, cuz there IS truth in our fears, but only HALF truths. I can counter every one of the voices I just wrote in my journal.

Him:

But there’s always these looming feelings that I’ve accomplished nothing, done nothing. Am nothing.

Me:

That’s fear—like you are a failure—because you’re scared you will be. And while the fear is valid, real, true, because there is a vague possibility you won’t find a job you want, the WHOLE TRUTH is you are virtually 100% guaranteed to find a job if you keep looking for one, and likely a coding job you’ll like.

Another truth is you’ve proven you can code as a straight-A graduate with a CS degree, which was your primary goal the last 4 years. And you did it. Well done!”

Him:

I seem to be unable to compartmentalize my feelings.


Me:

This is LEARNING, E.M., applying for your first real job that isn’t a part-time, low-level gig. You’re launching your career, and that’s a big deal. Let yourself feel scared, and frustrated, and excited and every other feeling that arises through this process. And you WILL get a job. Guaranteed, IF you keep working at it!! Just like I’ll get the Power Trip written. See, I’ve already proven I can write with 7 books out, with mostly good reviews… And the voices of doubt gather like locusts as I write the last two lines above:

  • Yeah, you’ve written 7, but they’re all crap. 
  • And the good reviews, well, they were just being nice. 
  • The bad reviews are the truth about your writing. 
  • So GIVE IT UP BITCH. You will always fail at this. 
  • and so on…

But again, I can COUNTER all of these doubts with another POV:

  • Yeah, you’ve written 7, but they’re all crap. BULLSHIT. I’ve gotten mostly good reviews.
  • And the good reviews, well, they were just being nice. BULLSHIT. Just bullshit cuz this is such a stupid thought.
  • Bad reviews are the truth about your writing. NOPE. They are HALF THE TRUTH, or a percentage, and in most cases the greater percentage of my reviews are positive.
  • So give it up bitch. You will always fail at this. FUCK OFF, BITCH OF DOUBT.

Now GET TO WORK, honey, cuz writing is the only way you’re going to become a better writer.

His response:

Emoji smile. Clapping hands. Thank you hands.