We are ALL racists. Every human being on the planet is BORN a racist.
‘NO!’ you’re screaming at me. ‘BULLSHIT, you whacked-out bitch. I am not a racist!’
Racism is taught, not inherent to our nature is the common wisdom. And while it’s true racism, hate, fear can be taught by parents, community, schools, religious leaders, and conservative media, we are all born, to varying degrees, racists.
Mammals, the genome to which Humans belong, are born with an innate FEAR of THE OTHER — anything outside what is familiar to us. And this fear manifests as RACISM, and SEXISM, and NATIONALISM.
“FEAR of THE OTHER” should be the universal definition of racism. And humans manifest our fear in a variety of ways. Some, their fear is so overwhelming, their ignorance so great, it aligns with HATE, and they are violent against THE OTHER.
But sometimes, when our fear is acknowledged, and then examined, it motivates us to learn about THE OTHER. Only then, do we discover that regardless of color, or even gender, we are not so different. We all FEEL the same feelings.
‘BULLSHIT,’ you calling me out again. ‘You don’t know how it FEELS to be Black.’
You’re right. I’m White. But I know what it FEELS like to be dissed. I grew up overweight in chic L.A. I was the butt of fat jokes through elementary and middle school. I never got asked out on a date until I dropped the weight in my senior year of high school. And while I am now in “good shape,” I will go to my grave feeling fat. I will never fit in to the world where thin is the only way to be “in.” And I know what it FEELS like living forever on the outside wishing to be in.
So what if you were fat, you say. You lost the weight. Skinny or fat, I can’t stop being Asian, or gay.
And I am a woman. I know what it FEELS like being judged as lesser than because I am not a man. I know how it FEELS to be making two-thirds the salary of the guy next to me doing the exact same job. My first job out of college as an art director for a major jewelry manufacturer, the CEO of the company came into my first big meeting and grabbed my breast instead of my outstretched hand. He squeezed my tit like it was an orange and said, “Nice!” I know how it FEELS to be objectified for my body alone.
Being disrespected makes me FEEL valueless, ashamed, awkward, angry, mystified, enraged, scared, small, sad. And all these negative feelings manifest inside each of us when we are dissed. The fact is, Black, White, Fat or not, we’ve all experienced each of these feelings independently, or simultaneously, regardless if we are consciously aware of them. Each of us may react to our feelings differently, but most all of us are intimate with feeling dissed.
Most of us are also intimate with feeling happy, engaged [in a pleasing activity], safe, content in moments. Our reasons for feeling these things may vary, though not as much as you think. The love of a parent, guardian or friend; the comfort of a safe home; full bellies from tasty food makes most of us FEEL good. The intensity of our feelings varies wildly from person to person. Some enjoy positive feelings far more often than others born with internal angst, or into external misfortune. But the feelings of HAPPY and SAD, GOOD and BAD, PROUD and ASHAMED, EMPOWERED and DISSED are common to all of us.
Being alive means FEELING. The enormous, complex range of feelings we get to experience, both body and mind, is exclusively Human. The capacity of our brain power is what separates us from every other living creature on this planet. And while we all have different experiences, feeling the same things provides a natural bridge to unite us, a window for empathy, even camaraderie through our shared feelings.
We are all born racists. You, me, all humans are born with an innate fear of THE OTHER. Once again, we are standing on the precipice of change, Racism and Sexism the topics de jour. Perhaps this time, we will get off the politically correct train, admit we are all racists and choose to fight our innate fear of THE OTHER. We’ll acknowledge the benefits of integration and globalization as an opportunity to learn from the best of each other. We’ll not only believe in, but practice equal rights.
Stand up, or take a knee, but SPEAK OUT against hate, and educate the ignorant that there really are no substantive differences between us — not color, not culture, not gender or age, not religious or sexual preference, because all human beings FEEL the same things.
Christians and Muslims (actual believers, not in name only because they celebrate Christmas or Eid al-Fitr) believe the purpose of living is to serve and reflect their God’s will to ensure their assent to heaven after death.
Jews focus on the present rather than an afterlife. They believe humans should partnerwith their God in completing, repairing, and perfecting His creation.
Buddhists have no God. They want to wipe out greed, hate, mental anguish caused by desire, attachment, and ignorance to reach Nirvana (not the band ;-})—where the mind achieves clarity and peace. Rebirth is extinguished for the enlightened (those who achieved Nirvana), like a flame going out.
Hindus have Brahman, their Supreme God that takes many godlike forms. Their purpose in life is much like Buddhists—to reach Moksha (spiritual liberation), the end of reincarnation. They are unique in that they give no rigid purpose to living, but provide a moral, ethical framework for living a meaningful life and achieving Moksha.
I am an atheist, so I, alone, must determine my purpose in being alive. While I’m not a Nihilist, I agree there is no inherent, or dictated [by a god] meaning or purpose to life. My mother and father created me, as did theirs before them and so on, back to the earliest humans. All life here emerged through entropy, not born of some cosmic energy carving morality in stone or assigning us purpose.
Since I believe no god ormysticalforce gives me purpose, I’m free to create my own. I was lucky to be raised by Jews in name only—celebrating Hanukkah and went to temple on Yom Kipper, though in discussions driving home learned neither my mom or dad believed in Bible ‘fables,’ or a god. With no Grand Plan, like most of us I still needed one, something to motivate me to get out of bed in the morning. I, too, require some sense of purpose in living, and a reason to stay alive through dark times.
My mother was a devout social advocate. We spent many holidays feeding homeless, or handing out relief supplies to wildfire victims my formative years. She raised me with the foundation that all of us can make time to help others with less, especially those who have what they need. My father was a dreamer, and a philosopher at heart. His dominant side was a narcissist though—theory was fun to ponder, but getting to the best of us required his exclusive wisdom and guidance.
My old life’s purpose is partly a product of my parentage. My father believed a woman’s purpose—all women, in fact—is to reproduce. My mother was certain that raising kids would be the richest, most rewarding part of my life (and indeed they have been!). Having children, with mom as their primary caretaker, was the only consistent messaging my folks agreed on, (and society at large in the 1970s), so finding a mate and creating a family became my primary focus.
Since childhood, the life’s purpose I conjured was to raise kids better then me—kinder, more creative, emotionally intelligent, more aware of and caring for the world beyond theirs. I was sure that if each generation invested their TIME and energy into raising their children, gen over gen would become smarter, more innovative, more collaborative, and humans could reach our creative, compassionate potential.
I was that stupid.
Parenting is an art, not a science. Being there for your kids means way different things for different people. Both my husband and I worked full-time throughout their childhood, though my consulting career in marketing took a back seat to parenting, which basically killed it. (Running your own gig is like nurturing children—requires focused time and effort.)
By my kid’s measure, I’ve been present, available, attentive to my kids since their births, my focus on them, their needs first. I was lucky our combined income and investments allowed me to do so. Many parents can not, or choose not to make their progeny their highest priority while pursuing their own greatness. They raise latch-key kids who must fend for themselves for the most part while both parents work. With no safe harbor, children grow up afraid, resentful, angry.
My sister basically abandoned her kids to her nanny and our mother while she played tennis and traveled with her husband. And both her kids are angry, lost adults. Other parents are poor role models, instilling racism, blind faith, hate into their kids.
My life’s purpose before kids was clear, and simple really: to raise kind and productive people, and instill in them a desire to do the same. And so I have. But they are not one of many in a kinder, wiser, more empathetic gen, they are an anomaly. Regardless the safe harbor I provided my kids, they grew up lonely in a neighborhood where children were indoctrinated with religion from birth, often racist and mean-spirited, and focused on themselves and what they could get instead of give.
So much for my Utopian dream.
My kids are now adults, in their mid-20s finding their own purpose, creating their own lives. I have the time to indulge in the writing career I pivoted to when they were young. I have the time, but lately I seem to have lost the inclination to write anything beyond blogs. And if you read my essays, you’ll notice the tenor of my posts lately—I am completely and utterly lost, without purpose.
It’s not classic empty-nest syndrome because I worked while raising kids, so they weren’t my entire life, just my first priority. And I have many interests to pursue, from writing to mentoring to traveling, even becoming more intimate with my husband of 30 yrs. So why every morning when I wake up do I lay in bed for half and hour wondering what the hell I’ll do today, and even if I come up with something I’m wondering the point in doing it at all.
I can’t make humans kinder with my writing. No one can motivate or legislate anyone to care beyond themselves. The best I can do is entertain, and we’re already flooded with entertainment choices a lot less heady than mine, which is why I’m read by mostly intellectuals, engineers, math heads, professors—people who think more than just believe. While I’m grateful for my readers, I don’t have many and have a hard time getting them in a world that prefers mindless entertainment. And it isn’t fun for me writing meaningless crap. So daily, when I sit down at my desk and the cursor is blinking at me, I wonder what the point is in continuing to write.
I could go back to teaching entrepreneurs how to create sustainable startups, but a decade of doing so at Stanford and Cal Berkeley was a lesson in futility. Students want to build their ideas more then walk the tedious process of how to sell them. And most of their offerings were iterations on middle-men SaaS money grabs—drop-shipping on Amazon, or sites like Realtor or Robinhood, or yet another ‘AI-curated’ media site.
By my mother’s example, I was raised that our purpose in living was to serve—our family, our community, our planet. Most were taught, often by example, to serve themselves, which is why we have Instagram, corrupt CEOs, oligarchs, politicians, and ‘good people’ on their cellphone while driving causing 14% of fatal crashes in 2024. I grew up with a life’s purpose—to contribute to reaching humanity’s amazing potential—but I no longer believe in it.
Valueless. Transparent, like no one can see you. And you’re screaming truth, cited facts, pouring your heart out, jumping through hoops to be noticed, heard, but you’re still ignored, marginalized. Worthless.
Ever feel invisible to everyone, even your reflection? Like, ‘whoareyou?’ when your eyes connect in the mirror.
Sometimes, when people say my name, I don’t know who they’re talking to, as if Jeri isn’t me.
I get most people reading this won’t understand what I mean—how it feels to feel like nothing—unless you are an artist, a depressive, or a realist. I’m all three, sadly. I’m also an idealist—profoundly awestruck by our creativity and ingenuity—and consistently disappointed by how often I, we, fall short of our amazing potential.
When I go black, my daughter and a few dear friends try to pull me back into the light by listing my accomplishments. Never works. The life I’ve lived—most of what I’ve done, from raising kind kids to navigating a 30 yr marriage to an autistic man, to a career in entrepreneurship and education, to fine writing novels and short works—seems so…small. Insignificant, touching so few. Like my mama, somehow I wanted to matter to more than just my kids.
Where do you get your value? Most people likely don’t dwell on this question. Sleep. Eat. Work. Play. Pay bills…etc., most don’t philosophize much after college when real life takes over. Beyond the overworked and the apathests who don’t ponder, as an artist and an idealist I’ve often wondered why some seem to be born with an inner confidence [I sorely lack], or a delusional self-image [I do not wish to attain].
During my dating years, most of the men I met ‘were at a great place in their life,’ and touted they ‘liked themselves,’ (with or without a partner). Ok…sure, but why? In my 20s, many were beer-bellied, broke, and living in a shared flat or still with their folks. By my mid-30s, most were middle to high earners, but were pudgy, balding, divorced and blamed it all on ‘that bitch,’ instead of seeing their fault in the marriage.
Met up with a new friend last week. Over chips and tacos he told me how he ‘only dates beautiful women.’ And they better have ‘chemistry’ when kissing, and be willing to get laid pretty quick into the relationship or he was out. He had to be kidding. He’s 72 yrs old, balding, in creaky shape with new hips and other health issues, divorced twice, in education all his life so not well off, living in a sketch part of town. For some reason it eluded him why the women he met didn’t want to come to his place.
Does Elon Musk think he’s great because he’s the richest guy on the planet? Or is he delusional that he’s an inventor when he hasn’t invented literally anything except the Cybertruck, and that ugly, hulking metallic piece of shit is an abject failure in the auto industry with plunging sales since its 2023 launch.
Does being rich, or a CEO or high-paid exec of some oil company, bank, or venture capital firm make you valuable? A Silicon Valley colleague and friend seems to think so. He recently held a conference matching founders to VC and was very impressed with the caliber of the executive panelists. Extensive research plays that from Elon to the head of Chevron, most who’ve risen to the top of the corporate ladder are psychopaths.
Psychopathy, according to Psychology Today, involves being impulsive, not troubled by anxiety, nor by feelings for others. It includes being aggressive, ready to assign blame to anyone but oneself, yet also able to manipulate and influence others. Does this not sound like Peter Darbee, CEO of PG&E? He defended millions inexecutivebonusesratherthaninvesting utility profits into repairingthe frayed pipelinethat exploded inSan Brunodestroying 38 homes andburningeight peopleto death. And I’ll bet you Peter still thinks himself valuable—intelligent, accomplished, savvy—even beyond his $35M exit package six months after the fire he let happen.
Had parathyroid surgery recently. The surgeon assured me in effusive detail that he was ‘absolutelysure’ only one of my parathyroids had a tumor and the surgeon at UW Medical was wrong in her diagnosis of hyperplasia. Turned out, UW was right. When I woke from surgery, the surgeon had removed two and a half of my four parathyroids. What made him so sure he was right, especially with evidence from multiple tests done at UW showing more than one tumor? Why was he so sure of his assessment over UW’s? What on earth made this man such an arrogant prick? Not once in post op, or in the follow-up a month later did he apologize for his diagnostic mistake. And I’ll bet you that doc never, ever questions his value.
I’ve been slamming myself as long as I can remember—suffocated by the weight of self-doubt and self-recrimination. Started with my family constantly putting me down—my mother insisting looking ‘put together’ would win me friends and later dates. My father assured me women were meant to be seen, not heard, and I’d better act demure with men or I’d be single the rest of my life. I could blame my lack of self-image on my parentage, but really? I could call out my husband of 30 yrs for ignoring or forgetting 80+% of what I say with what he didn’t want to hear, blaming me or colleagues instead of taking responsibility for his fuck-ups, but that’s autism.
My lack of self-esteem didn’t come outta nowhere. Failing to be a trad woman by my parents’ reckoning, and feeling invisible in my marriage certainly hasn’t helped my self-image any. Nor has my limited success as an author. Fine writing—fiction, short works, biz books—for over 20 years and I have just over 12,000 followers on my socials collectively. And no, for folks who don’t know, that is not good.
She meant beyond her kids, her husband and a few dear friends. She wanted to make a difference to the world outside her limited sphere, and she did as a marine science educator of So. Central elementary kids. But I get how she felt. I, too, want to be so much more than I am, and have been—be kinder, more patient, nurturing, less anxious and afraid. I want to reach more readers—encourage thinking and questioning, invite engagement and authentic communication.
Winston Churchill explicitly told his private secretary, Anthony Browne: “I have worked very hard all my life, and I have achieved a great deal—in the end to achieve nothing.”
In the days leading up to his suicide in 1890, Vincent Van Gogh told his brother, Theo, “he had failed, as a man and as an artist.” He sold only three paintings his entire career. (Kind of like an author today having only 12,000 followers after writing to be read for over 20 yrs, says the voice in my head).
“You’re your own worst enemy,” my husband tells me. And ofc, he’s right. For our first decade together, he, too, thought his shit didn’t smell—literally, he used to tell me he couldn’t smell the stink he created in the bathroom. Until recently, he was sure of his own rightness, certain his thoughts and opinions were based in reason, which is why he didn’t listen to mine. He assumed he understood his feelings and the actions (or lack thereof) they motivated. Thirty years of marriage and nine therapist later (some for years), he’s just beginning to acknowledge the black box of his mind that allowed him to live in delusion.
I have a hard time with delusion, which is likely why I see me as I am at times—nothing. Those moments I’m so wrapped up in my dark pity party I can’t see that essentially, we all are. Regardless of our contributions in life—an Insta influencer with 10M followers or Einstein—all of us make very little difference beyond our small sphere. We will be missed by few upon death, and only for a short time, then forgotten.
Reminding myself that it simply doesn’t matter if I matter beyond the lives I touch directly, and that life is a collection of moments and to make them as pleasurable as possible brings color into black. Present with those I care about who care for me, or immersed in the process of writing, engaged with my creative muse conjuring worlds and the people in them, I forget about feeling like nothing.
Then the voice of doubt that I’m writing crap and no one will read me anyway creeps in while I’m staring at the blinking cursor and the blank space after it…
For as long as I can remember I wanted to be a mom. I was absolutely convinced I could parent better than my mother. My father was the breadwinner — king of our small kingdom — and more into himself than raising the two kids he produced and the one he adopted.
I became a mom at 40, after six pregnancy losses. I grieved every loss as my failing, since I was 37 when we started trying to have a child, but sperm degrades in men over 35. My husband was 40. Three years later, after another loss, I had our daughter. I’ve been a full-time mom since.
Along with being a mom, I’ve run a marketing consulting biz helping entrepreneurs launch ideas into startups. I taught at Cal and Stanford for close to a decade, wrote two marketing books, two novels, and two short story collections. And in all my career, I’ve never, ever, put in the amount of effort, time, money, and heart that it’s taken raising two children.
There are no words to describe the love I feel for my kids. Now in their mid-20s, they are kind people — my #1 goal raising them. They are thinkers. Productive. Grateful. Giving. Loving. I could not be prouder of them. Full stop. And while they are both at home this moment, they are moving on, as they should.
The issue: I am unclear how to let go.
Right now, I’m in my office trying to focus on writing fiction, but my mind keeps drifting to my son. He’s been with the same nonprofit for 4 yrs, and he’s been trying to find another job [on and off] almost as long. He had his first ever on-site interview last week and is waiting to hear back today. I keep listening for the back door of our house to open. He wouldn’t come out to my office a quarter acre from the house if he didn’t get the job. Since I’m not hearing the back door, I’m checking my email obsessively. He’ll email if he doesn’t get it.
Seems like I’m a bit over-invested in my son’s career, and I’ll walk that. But here’s a bit of my investment in this job he’s waiting to hear about:
I talked him into taking the in-person interview against his resistance since he’d be spending close to a grand to make it happen.
Talked him into flying instead of blowing 3 days driving and his other interviews set up for later in the week. Then I helped him set up a flight to get to his on-site interview.
I looked up BART times from SFO to be sure he’d get there on time with a short time frame from landing to getting there.
My husband drove him to the airport at 4:30a.m. to make his 7:15 flight, but I was his emotional support on the phone with him from 7:00a.m. until 10:20a.m. that morning. He called when all passengers were kicked off the first flight over an hour and a half delay. He’d be late for his interview if he waited so we worked to find another flight leaving sooner. He found one, got on it, and some guy the flight attendant didn’t like wouldn’t leave the plane when asked. My son, and all the other passengers, sat on that plane half an hour for security to come and escort the guy off. My son was now guaranteed to be late.
I dictated a text to send to the hiring manager that he’d be late for the interview, which was trickier than it sounds since he was flying in and they’d assumed he was local.
I won’t even go into the hundreds of hours I’ve spent editing our daughter’s school essays, to the tens of thousands of dollars already spent on her undergraduate degree, to emotionally and financially supporting her through college and four MCAT tests…etc.
I wonder if focusing on our son’s job prospect is an excuse to avoid writing fiction today…
Is my focus on this potential job of his justified by the hours of my life I’ve invested parenting him, and guiding his career?
Pushing him constantly to look for a new gig with every complaint about his current job.
Helping him write his LinkedIn profile, bio, and micro-messaging to potential hiring managers.
Edited his CV, including yr over yr updates.
Be his cheerleader to lift his depression with constant rejections.
Pushing him to network, go to uni and tech meetups. Socialize more!
Fully funding his master’s degree…etc.
I told myself I’d do better than my mother, and so I have. I’ve extended an open forum for our kids to share anything, and ask me anything that strikes them. I’ve challenged them to find their true feelings often masked as anger, or in defense of destructive behavior. By their measure, I am still their best friend. It’s easy to be with them back at home, sharing their day to day. But our daughter will be in med school soon. Whether this job or another, our son will be leaving soon too.
The virtually electric connection I feel with my kids will be lost with distance, and their shifting priorities. Family will take the background to their ‘real lives.’ As it should be, but nonetheless, their independence leaves me a bit lost. Our kids health and welfare have been my #1 priority from the day I knew I was pregnant. Made my body a temple of health before working at pregnancy — killed Diet Coke, all caffeine, weed, processed and fried foods, salty snacks, and passed on desserts. I also ran five miles five days a week. And in an effort to model healthy habits to our kids, I’ve continued working out daily.
My kids have been great motivators for me to model the best of myself — disciplined, motivated, creative, caring, loving freely, fully, without reservation as I do our kids. I will miss talking to them daily, keeping abreast of their lives in real time, hugging them, being their greatest advocate as they find partners to stand beside them.
The hiring manager texted my son early today they’d have a decision about the on-site job he’d interviewed for by 4:00p.m. It’s minutes away and he’s yet to hear anything. Is that bad? Or maybe he’s talking to them now and I don’t know in my office a good distance from his. I keep checking my email and listening for the back door to open. My heart is beating so hard I hear it.
I’m proud of my son for flying down to the interview, staying chill during a nightmare flight, and managing to get to the interview only a few minutes late. I passionately want him to get the job offer! A deserved win after much effort. Great life lesson. If he gets it, he’ll move out, down to the Bay, close to a thousand miles away.
Waiting to hear if he got the job, I’m battling my desire to hang on to the last of these moments we have together. He’ll be upset if he doesn’t get it, and I’ll be here to help pick him up and dust him off and push him to keep looking and applying.
Ultimately, no matter how much I help my kids, or am there for them along the way, I cannot protect them from heartbreak. And as they move on, I am too. I’ll have to find my value, the best of me beyond being their mother. I’d likely be doing just that — engaged in writing fiction right now — if I wasn’t so focused on hearing about our son’s job opp…
Pick any famous author, artist, or musician, and they’ll all have obsession in common. And while we, the public, enjoy the fruits of their creative labors, those closest to these individuals were/are generally left wanting more of them, more from them.
Charles Schulz, creator of the Peanuts comic strip, “was an indifferent and often inattentive father and husband.”
Rod Serling, of Twilight Zone fame, “worked 12 hours a day seven days a week, [and] his wife, Carol, tended to their daughters, Jodi and Anne.”
Adrienne Armstrong, wife of Billy Joe Armstrong of Greenday, said of her husband after the release of the album American Idiot, “I think it challenged us to a new level, pushed us pretty far, the farthest I ever want to go.”
The creatives above are all men. All married and all had/have children.
Now let’s explore a few famous women.
The romance novelist Jane Austen never married. She was, in fact, ‘relieved in later life to have avoided the pitfalls of married life, not least the huge risks of childbirth, “all the business of Mothering.’”
Georgia O’Keeffe, the surrealist painter, “wanted to have children but agreed with him [her husband, Alfred Steiglitz] that motherhood was incompatible with her art. She needed to focus all of her attention on her painting.”
Oprah Winfrey, the media mogul has never married. “The very idea of what it means to be a wife and the responsibility and sacrifice that carries — I wouldn’t have held that very well.” And she never had children. “If I had kids, my kids would hate me. They would have ended up on the equivalent of the “Oprah” show talking about me; because something [in my life] would have had to suffer and it would’ve probably been them.”
Ms. Winfrey had the guts to address the unvarnished, unspoken truth when she referred to the “responsibility and sacrifice,” in being a partner and mother. She understood the investment of time, physical and mental energy it takes to be a conscientious parent would have interfered, even waylaid immersion with her siren to grow a multi-billion-dollar empire.
Men have historically been the breadwinners of the family. And while this trend is slowly changing, the fact is women who seek personal excellence, especially in the arts, often have to choose between pursuing greatness and being, at least, an available partner and parent. Even today, men rarely have to make this choice.
Regardless of this sexist disparity, anyone, man or woman, obsessed with becoming great [at anything] should recognize the sacrifice and cost of pursuing brilliance.
As a wife, mother, and writer, my creative muse is constantly vying for prominence in my hierarchy of desires. When my kids were babies, my creative process encountered fewer distractions. I could stay rapt in storytelling, run dialog in my head while watching them play at the park or practice Lil’ Kicker’s soccer. Small kids, small problems. Now the parent of two young adults, my muse is often drowned out by the very real traumas and trials of adulting my children face every day. To help them navigate these tumultuous times, I question, probe, and even invade their space to stay connected, be there for them as a sounding board, a trusted confidant, be their ground when they’re falling, or envelop them in a hug.
I chose to marry and have kids. And while I am present, available for my family, forfeiting the hours I couldhave been making it with my muse writing was a battle I engaged in daily. Much of my fiction focuses on this internal war. My novel,Reverb, illustrates the cost of a guitarist’s obsession with creating music. Disconnected confronts the reality that women can’t ‘have it all’ — be everything we want to be, and still be there for our kids and family.
We glorify the brilliant author, the renowned artist, the genius scientist, and successes in business, often secretly wish to be one of them. Entrepreneurs that have built global companies made their startups their newborns, investing their time and energy in growing the business. To become great at anything means obsessively working at that job or craft, honing a skill set with relentless practice, which is the fundamental reason why genius is so rarely achieved.
Google “Genius,” and “Einstein” is in the first several pages of search returns. Einstein had intellectually incoherent views on politics, economics, and psychology, and by most accounts from colleagues and family, he sucked at relationships. Focusing solely on math and physics, he neglected most everything else, but he was one hell of a physicist.
Obsessive practice, to the exclusion of most everything else, is a reliable indicator of achieving brilliance. And now that my kids are grown and on their own, I have more time to make it with my muse, and I do. But truth be told, while it used to matter to me to be someone, achieve ‘famous writer’ status, or at least a Wiki page, not so much anymore. I’d never have been a creative director, a founder and entrepreneurship educator. So absorbed in my own greatness, I’d never have cultivated the truly intimate relationships I now have, or earned the status of Partner and Mom if I’d chosen the road of pursuing the title of ‘brilliant.’ I’d miss too much living such a hyper-focused life. Besides, it’s so much more fun to hang at home with loved ones, watch Netflix and be entertained by those who’ve ‘made it.’ ;-}
I sat on the floor in the back of a bookstore in old-town Pasadena perusing the selections. It was Saturday, late afternoon, another sunny day in L.A. I didn’t notice the store owners hustling everyone out the door and they didn’t see me in the back on the floor. After a while, I picked a book I liked, got up, and went to pay for it. The store was empty except for an old man sitting at a large desk awkwardly placed in the center of the main aisle. It blocked my way to the checkout so it was impossible to ignore him.
I greeted him with a quick ‘Hi,’ and smiled as I wriggled around the desk. He smiled back and asked me if I could get him a glass of water before the signing. I told him I didn’t work at the store. Then he asked me what I was still doing there. Buying a book, I told him. He took the book out of my hand and read the title, looked at me, and smiled. This is good, he assured me and handed the book back but kept staring at me with this funny grin on his face, like he had a secret.
He looked familiar but I couldn’t place him. There was a tall stack of books on the desk next to him. The Martian Chronicles, one of my all-time favorites. Then I noticed the sign on the easel in front of the desk. Ray Bradbury Live! Today at 5:00.
I blushed. He smiled with my acknowledgment. Ray Bradbury was one of my few idols and he was sitting in front of me. I was speechless at first, which is rare for me. The man was what I aspired to be, a great writer. I picked up one of the ‘special addition’ hardcover books on the desk and held it up. This is really good, too, I assured him. He laughed. In the five years I’d been seriously writing I knew nothing I’d written touched his talent.
And then I got sad.
I felt the tears come. I couldn’t stop them. I smiled at him, put his book back in the stack, and turned away, started to walk to the checkout but he stopped me. He asked me what was up but I told him he couldn’t possibly understand, knowing who he was, what he was, and what I was not. Try me, he insisted.
So I did. I explained that I wrote too, but didn’t label myself a writer. Though it was easy for me to recognize talent when I read it, it was impossible for me to see it in my own work. Every time I put word to paper I questioned if it was any good.
Surprisingly, he laughed. Then he told me that he too had the same question running through his head with everything he wrote. More often than not when he read his own work he thought it was crap.
I was astonished. The man was a renowned novelist. How could he still question if he was any good? I had assumed once my work was recognized the uncertainty would never plague me again. The idea that I would have to battle my self-effacing ego the rest of my life, published or not was appalling, and I told him so.
His expression softened and he shook his head. Then he asked me why I write.
I’d never really considered the question before. I’d been writing for as long as I could remember, diaries and journals when I was younger, then stories and eventually novels. I assumed that once I got good enough someone would publish me and I could quit my day job and write full-time, but that hadn’t happened yet. Clearly, I wasn’t good enough. Perhaps I never would be. I constantly questioned when I should give it up, though the thought of not writing anymore was on par with going blind.
I write because I love to, I told him.
He smiled. Good answer, he said. The question is not if you’re any good, but if you love the process of writing. Published or not, keep writing as long as you love doing it.
And so I have. I still get disheartened, every other day it seems I’m back to black, trying to talk myself into making my day job my career. Even though I’m publishing now, there isn’t any money in it. Yet. Hope springs eternal. Good or not, published or not I keep writing though, because I love to write.
Australia killed social media today for under 18. YEA AUZZIES!
My almost 24 yr old daughter came downstairs Saturday morning giggling with glee. She told my husband and I she was ‘so excited!’ Something ‘great’ had happened.
She was in a car accident 1.5 yrs ago that is resulting in a lawsuit, and I thought she’d talked to our lawyer and he gave us great news. Nope.
“I got an audition on The Button!” she said, pridefully. “It’s a really popular YouTube series.”
I went with her excitement. My beautiful daughter got an acting audition, or for her melodic singing. Or a baking show for her excellent macaron cookies!
“How many subscribers?” I asked.
“Millions! It’s a reality dating show.”
As her words registered in my head, so did dread.
“You sit at a table across from each other with a large red button between you,” she explained enthusiastically. “The show’s producers ask personal, intimate questions to push conversation.”
I bet they do. Build tension. Push the show’s platform of ‘Shaming Spectacle.’ Corrosive dread was quickly turning into explosive rage.
“If one presses the button before the other, that person is out of the game.”
“You mean rejected?” At this point, my rage was boiling over. My daughter was seemingly so addicted to her phone and social media she could not see the ugly, sick fuck piece of trash YouTube show she’d signed on for.
“Yeah. But if neither press the button, then you win a date,” she said, more cautiously seeing my expression.
My tolerance dam broke right then. “Are you stupid!? Why would you sign up for a show designed to SHAME YOU? Are people allowed to leave comments?”
“Yes, Mother, but it’s not like that.”
“What’s it like, then?” my husband asked. “How can this possibly serve you going on this show?”
“It’s not about that. It’ll be fun to be on a show I watch.”
She watches this crap!? But I didn’t voice it. “You’re supposed to be studying for your MCATs. Why do you want to go on this show that’s designed to make you feel shitty about yourself?”
“It’s just for fun,” she defended. “I probably won’t even get on.”
“And if you do, how are you going to feel with being rejected in front of millions? Or rejecting someone else?”
“Maybe I won’t be rejected.”
“And what? You’ll find Mr. Right on this bullshit show? You have MCATs in 8 wks, honey. What are you doing!?”
“I thought it would be fun to be seen by that many people,” she said flatly.
“But you won’t be seen,” my husband chimed in. “You judge everyone on the show when you’re watching. And millions will be doing the same to you.”
“Are you ready for negative comments about your looks, or things you expose when the asshole producers trigger you in front of millions?”
“I won’t read the comments.”
“Are you talking about the Red Button show?” our son comes in the kitchen.
“Yeah,” she said to her older brother. “Have you seen it?”
“Yeah. Couple times. It’s really brutal. A race to the bottom — who can push the button first. No one wants to be the one rejected. You like it?”
“Yeah. I think it’s funny.”
“She got an audition to do the show,” I filled him in.
“Your mom and I don’t think it’s a great idea.”
“Even to audition,” I said. “Won’t help your self image any if you get rejected for the show.”
“So, you don’t think I’m pretty enough to be on the show?” she asked, practically glaring at me. “You think I’m not good looking enough to get picked.”
“I see my beautiful daughter. But this isn’t about what I think. You’ve cried to me time and again you’re not pretty enough,” I manage more softly. “You’ve admitted you compare yourself with influencers, and how you feel ugly by social standards. You’ve told me you hate your nose. Don’t like your body shape. Breast size. Your face. How is this going to be ‘fun’ if you’re rejected, get bad comments, or even get a second date? At best, this show’s a distraction from your goal to get into med school. At worse, and more likely, it’ll make you feel even worse about yourself.”
“Not fun,” her brother added. “I wouldn’t do it J. Not smart,” he said as he left.
“I’m doing the audition anyway,” our daughter said, and followed him out of the kitchen.
—
Ever written a blog, personal essay, or even an email, and as you write it you realize something is fucked up with your reasoning — the point you set out to make?
I realized I may have shamed our daughter, just as the The Button is designed to shame its participants.
I wrote her an email this morning apologizing if she felt I did when I lost it after she told me she was auditioning for the game. I explained my intention was to protect her, educate her from the dangers of predatory online content. She clearly failed to understand the broader consequences of signing up for, or even frequently watching the exploitative game show.
‘Game show’ my ass. Nothing playful about The Button. I wanted to protect my beautiful baby from being publicly shamed.
Some raw facts (I didn’t iterate to our daughter, but likely should):
Social media addiction amplifies low self-esteem leading to higher rates of depression and suicide, especially in her age group.
Watching and engaging with shaming, bullying, predatory, and exploitative content increases low self-esteem, depression and suicide rates.
The development team of ignorant, arrogant, short-sighted, self-serving slime, AKA, the Cut: David Alvarez, Blaine Ludy, Marina Taylor (former), and Desmond Vieg, are making bank on what they call “a social experiment.”
‘Experiment?’ Get real! No science. No controls. These parasites are profiting from exploiting shame and destroying self-esteem of young people establishing their self-images. How ugly is that!
Regardless of my faulty approach of admonishing our daughter for signing up for The Button, my heart was in the right place. The Cut developers are clearly heartless. Would they entice their own kids into some twisted social ‘experiment’ for their profit? I pray they never have children. Narcissists generally make suck parents.
I’m ashamed, feel I failed as a mom that my daughter signed up to be on The Button, or even chooses to spend one minute of her life’s time watching it, essentially promoting it with her views. I thought I taught our kids to be aware of the consequences of their actions. Parenting the perils of the internet seems a constant work-in-progress now, coming up against social platforms luring kids in like the Pied Piper, and addicting them like Purdue Pharma with OxyContin.
The Cut founders are young, naive, arrogant, and ignorant in the extreme. (So is most social media, from Insta to Snap that blows away your life’s time). Ugly games like The Button teaches watchers and participants it’s OK to torment, mock, insult, shame people, for profit.
The Button creators get richer with every hit to their “mean‑spirited,” “cruel,” “superficial,” “shallow,” YouTube channel. And ‘Seen by millions’ if you join their cast of fools won’t make you rich like they’re becoming on you.
Modeling cruelty spreads it. When you View or Engage with The Button, or any online game, platform, or app that makes it acceptable, (profitable, and therefore admirable) to be cruel, you are participating in becoming so.
There are bookstores around the country that will put an author on a bestsellers list if the store decides to carry their book, regardless of sales. One of these was Rakeshaw Books in Danville, CA. I’d finished my first novel, REVERB, and got a small publisher to pick it up, but as with most publishers, even famous ones, the author is still required to market their work.
I went to Rakeshaw Books, only a few miles from my home, to ask them to carry my book since I was a local writer. It was 10:10 in the morning, just after they opened. The salesclerk was the only one in the store, an older woman, gray hair, sagging face, crinkles around her blue eyes with her welcoming smile.
I asked her if Rakeshaw would carry my book. She told me NO. They only carried books from publishers like Random House. I felt like crying right then having hit this wall so often, and the clerk saw my expression and continued.
“I’ve been working here for 40 years,” she told me. “Part-time raising my kids. Full-time after that. You are one of the many writers I’ve had to turn away. But over the years I’ve noticed a pattern I’d like to share with you.” And she paused and stared at me, like asking for my permission to continue.
“Ok…” I said, but honestly, I really didn’t care at that point.
“There are writers, and there are authors,” she said. “The writers who come in here look a lot like you,” and her eyes walked over my leggings and ripped T, then to my mess of hair and my makeupless face. “Writers write. Most every day. They are recluses, absorbed by the process of writing itself. They aren’t genre-specific, but explore many and often integrate several into their work. They generally only get small publishers to pick them up, if they get one at all, which is a shame because they are usually great storytellers spending the bulk of their time writing — honing the craft.
“Authors write books for recognition. They typically write the same characters over and over, putting them through different paces. They build an audience that way, writing formula fiction, but their passion isn’t the writing itself. Authors adore the limelight. They typically enjoy public readings and gatherings that writers do not.” She examined me across the counter. “They are gregarious people, always selling — themselves and their work. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
“That I’m screwed?”
She smiled but shook her head. “Take solace that your passion lies in the process of writing. You never need be bored. Whether you are widely read or not, your work will have an impact, likely a greater impact on those who read it than the work of most authors out there.” She bobbed her head up and down confirming her own rhetoric, but I was grateful for her kind sentiments.
I thanked her and left but her words have resonated. I’ve met many who write over the 20 years I’ve been writing to publish — to get read. Some are famous. You’d know them if I name-dropped. Most are not, even if in some distant past they were once a NYT Bestseller. Thing is, I too have noticed the pattern the clerk described. Whether they became famous and turned into authors, or they started as authors writing formula fiction, writing the same characters and basic narratives over and over sells books.
I am a genre-diverse writer, (which hasn’t helped my sales). 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! Romantic detective series, or dystopian fantasies with a strong female lead.
Shoot me now if being a selling writer means traveling the formula road.
If I told you the truth of how few books I’ve sold, you’d call me out as crazy for continuing to write. I call myself out daily every morning I sit down at my laptop and start typing. Why am I still doing this!? Go back to marketing startups and make some real money! But I don’t. I write, and hope it will resonate with readers, thinking readers who love stories that spark self-reflection, and maybe even a new awareness.
Ray Bradbury once reminded me of why I write, and regardless of sales, I know I’ll never give it up. Writing fiction is intoxicating. Fully engaging. Hot. Sexual. Physical. Cerebral. Virtually touching real as I enter the scene. And I’m a million miles from Lonely.
ONE WISH. Right now. What would it be? Mom asked me and my sister on our drive home from school when I was 10. She often came up with non sequiturs to kill the silence following our monosyllabic responses when she asked about our day.
To get those new knee-high black leather boots, my sister said, and she paused for our mom’s response but got none. Which I know you won’t let me, she snapped.
What about you, Dolly? What would you wish for, Mom asked, looking at me in the rear view mirror.
World peace. I gave her my canonical answer when anyone asked what I’d wish for. I wanted it more than anything else, growing up watching my mom cry fixed on the TV News looking for her son, a front line Marine in the jungles of Vietnam at the height of the war.
What a stupid answer, my sister proclaimed. Never happen. Why don’t you ever wish for something you could actually get?
I slumped, but crossed my arms over my chest and countered, Peace is possible. Anything is possible.
Not world peace, she assured me. She was parroting our father.
Nothing ever changes, was Dad’s canonical refrain. Humans are aggressive, territorial, warring beings. We will always be combative, competitive, violent— a product of our foundation, forever encoded in our DNA.
Not true, I’d argue through the years. We’ve advanced from apes, developed complex languages, laws to protect and care for each other. We’ve risen from hunter/gatherers to farmers that now feed billions, created technology that allows us to communicate globally—
And we’ve invented better ways of killing each other, was always Papa’s rejoinder.
But we can learn how not to, I’d add with less vigor, sensing he was right, at least in that we’d invented a way of killing every living thing on our planet decades before I was born.
–
Fast forward 20+ years— a generation drop. Went to see Dances With Wolves at the Piedmont Theater with some friends. An epic film, made for the big screen, about an Army Lieutenant’s experience with Native Americans in the Dakota/Wyoming territories in the mid 1800s. Opening scene: U.S. civil war, blood, gore and all. Two scenes in, Army Captain blows his brains out. Couple scenes later, wagon driver pierced threw the chest with an arrow. Scene after scene showed violence. Americans killing Americans; Americans killing Indians; Indians killing Americans; Indians killing Indians with warring tribes. Ten minutes before the film ended I’d had enough. I ran from the theater, outside to the curb and threw up in the gutter.
My father is right. My father is right, was screaming in my head. We were engaged in the Gulf War back then, yet another stupid skirmish over territorial control, like dogs peeing to mark their spot. We’re better than this, a part of me pleaded. No. We’re not, I heard my dad say.
A beater BMW full of young guys watched me as they slowed almost to a stop alongside me on the curb. The driver stuck his tongue out and waggled it at me. A guy in the back seat behind the driver was catcalling me, making whistling noises like he was calling his pet. Piedmont is a wealthy suburb of Oakland, but it isn’t immune to assaults or drive-bys. Fear and disgust suddenly had me retching in the gutter again and the BMW took off.
My father is right. Nothing ever changes. We’re still barbarians, taking what we can, killing each other over nothing everywhere. My father is right.
I was blowing the blind date my girlfriend and her new husband set me up with that evening, silently staring down at the sidewalk while he paced me as the four of us walked to the Rockridge Cafe near the theater. I couldn’t stop tears from welling as we all sat down for a late dinner, excused myself and hid in the bathroom to get it together, but stood in the rather small, dim space and cried. Within moments my friend knocked to come in.
What is going on, she demanded, less concerned than annoyed. My ‘date’ was a friend of her husbands, and I suppose I was shaming them.
I apologized, willed myself to stop crying, but almost every time I blinked tears fell anyway. It’s just…I hesitated. Then I tried to explain to her I’d spent a lifetime denying my father’s ideology, and it turns out he may be right about humanity. We are a doomed race, with the emotional maturity of monkeys and the technology to annihilate our planet.
What difference does it make what we are or aren’t, my friend snapped. There’s no way to know what’ll happen in the future, so why worry about it? And if you’re a little less sad sack, even if you don’t like Mike (the date), you’ll find a guy like I have if you lighten up. You’ll start a family, move to some safe enclave with people like us and you’ll be so busy raising your kids and living the life you won’t feel a need to save the world anymore.
I stopped crying then, wiped my eyes on my sleeve and looked at her. She sounded like my pollyanna mother. You don’t get it. What’s the point of having kids if not to move us toward a more creative, compassionate, kinder, equitable future? Seriously, do you really want our kids, or theirs, or their kids kids to wade through the mire of the crap we do today? The sexism? The systemic racism and inequity it perpetuates? The violence we tolerate. Still!
She just stared at me. Then, You really need to chill! Splash some water on your face then come out and have a glass of wine or two, or three, and something to eat and you’ll feel better. And be nice! She commanded before reaching for me and pulling me in for a hug then left the bathroom.
–
Fast forward 20+ years more— another generation drop. Just finished The Hunger Games series with my 13 year old son. Normally, I never see movies or read books that involve kids getting hurt anymore. As a parent, I can’t touch that terror. But my son insisted Suzanne Collins was the ‘best writer he’s ever read,’ a high endorsement for a kid who reads three or more books a month, and requested we read it together for our traditional nightly read. And as a fiction writer, I just had to see why my kid loved this series so much more than any before it.
The first book, The Hunger Games, was captivating at first read. Engaging. Fast. Edgy, but a smooth, entertaining ride. Knowing there were two more books in the series made it plausible the main character, Katness, went along with the games with only the vaguest of questions about the morality behind them. Alliances were formed for survival, not partnering for innovation or love. The novel focused on the games themselves, the dystopian society, exploitative, ugly, and violent in the extreme, but it didn’t occur to me until the end of the first book there were no real characters on the pages. Ultimately, most everyone was out for themselves.
The Hunger Games was sad, dark, deeply disturbing from opening line to closing sentence, a grotesque statement on our character— Ms. Collins’s self-proclaimed interpretation on the popularity of the reality show Survivor. My son promised me the series provided a happy ending.
We finished Mockingjay last week, the last book in the series. The novel was disjointed, too many quick cuts with no real depth scene after scene. Beyond exploitative, reading it was like watching CNN— a barrage of video clips of what’s happening, and only the briefest explanation (and generally singular POV) as to why. And though Katness and her band of tortured cronies eventually win the day, the author makes it very clear the new order is the same as the old one, equally ugly, most having learned nothing from their past persecution and perilous fight to overthrow ‘the Capitol.’
My father is right, according to Suzanne Collins.
Nothing ever really changes is not a happy ending. After finishing the full series, I realize the novels are more effect than substantive content, on par with reality TV, as the writer claimed was her model for the series.
Been feeling somewhat ripped off for wasting my time with her three novels, and a bit pissed off for the message that Ms. Collins is subtly selling to our children.
My husband and I are raising our kids with the belief that people are malleable. We can, will, and do change. In fact, the human race is in the process of change constantly, albeit slowly, and not just our physicality, but our minds— we are evolving beings. We encourage the notion we can reach our amazing potential for invention, empathy, connection, with enough collective intelligence to create and sustain flourishing societies through communication, cooperation, compassion, and compromise. We promote these concepts to empower our children with the mindset they are changeable, bad habits are breakable, contempt and anger minimized when we are respected, feel valued, loved. War, famine, disease, hate are all eventually resolvable if we allow our massively complex, creative brains a safe harbor to thrive.
Idealist, my father, and seemingly Suzanne Collins mock me. Better an idealist then the cynic resigned to impending doom, or the author who exploits our frailties from voyeurism to sadism for book sales and then lays our current character flaws in stone to our children.
We must believe fundamental change in our character and nature are possible for each of us to begin living our kinder, smarter, more creative and productive selves forward.
I’m a ‘sit on the couch and eat ice cream’ type of person. I don’t live that way. I workout 5 days a week, 5 miles or more a day, watch little TV and rarely stream ’cept when I’m working out and weekend movies. If I had no desire to live an active life, I would have continued to sit on the couch in front of the TV and eat a lot more than just ice cream as I did throughout much of my childhood.
Thing is, no matter how healthy I live, I’m still going to die. And while we all know this fact, generally by the time we are 5 yrs old, we don’t think about it much unless there is a life-threatening scare or we’re facing old age, like when we turn 60 or so. Then, regardless of what older folks tell you, and how we distract ourselves with work or hobbies or relationships, we think about death a LOT.
Am I living right? Getting the most out of this short life? Have I experienced enough? Have I loved enough? Have I had enough fun? What can I do to get the most out of the few years I have left?
What to do with aging…
The idea of heaven is vulgar. I think The Good Place played that hand well. At the end of the series, they were all up in heaven and got so bored after doing everything they could conceive they elected to become nothing, or ‘one with everything’ depending on how you view the afterlife. And ‘getting to see’ people you’ve loved in the hereafter is equally vulgar. Sure, you’ve loved them, but I bet you’ve fought with them too. Can you imagine spending eternity — forever — with your mom and dad and siblings and spouses? No thank you!
I am a devout Atheist, meaning I don’t believe in god, or even the possibility of one. I don’t believe in an afterlife, or spirituality, whatever that means. Hitler (Trump) and I end up the same. Dead is dead. End of game. Life is over and there is no ME anymore. I did not exist before my birth and I cease to exist after I die.
It’s easier to believe in the Christian version of death. Less scary thinking your existence is eternal. That’s why, to date, 31+% of this planet identifies as Christian. Muslims, the second largest religion on Earth, also offers an afterlife in paradise or hell. Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism also preach forms of life after death, so it’s no wonder that 84% of humanity identifies with a religion.
The roughly 14+% of the rest of us living day-to-day knowing that we all become nothing after death is core scary at best.
We all want to feel our lives have significance. Substance. Meaning. That we matter! It is why social media exists — it plays on our desire to be seen. Every time we get a Like on our instastory, or see a high view or engagement count we all get a hit of dopamine straight into our brains. We may be shy, or awkward in groups or crowds, but no one wants to be invisible through life. We revel in being seen.
What does it really mean to MATTER? Three generation drops from now and most won’t remember today’s trending influencers, to our current or past pop/rockstars, to our great grandfathers. I know this intellectually, but emotionally I too want to be remembered by more than just my remaining family, and when they go, so does my memory, my significance. It’s hard, if not impossible to imagine not existing, though at 4:00am I lay in bed too often now panicked by the notion.
Kick back, honey, I tell myself as I stare at the glowing stars I stuck on the bedroom ceiling during the series Heroes when it got too bloody to watch throughout. I should just do what I feel like doing when I get up in the morning and quit pressuring myself to be someone. I already am to my kids, and a few friends. The problem, the war in my head that loops till twilight: ‘Why isn’t that enough for me?’
Close to 30 yrs ago a friend asked me to describe my perfect day a decade forward. From waking up till falling asleep that night, describe in detail what that day looked like to me. Let’s just say I didn’t get close. [Expectations. They’ll screw you every time.] I was supposed to be a known author long ago. I was supposed to have a house in Marin to leave to my well-adjusted, accomplished children. Married to the love of my life. My work read by tens of thousands, my words helping my readers become more personally and socially aware, live better lives.
Did I want too much? I lay in bed wondering why it matters to me that I’ll leave no real imprint on history. Who does, really. Albert Einstein comes to mind. Hitler does too, but oh so very few. And even those names will fade with time, buried under layers of more history.
I want to fall asleep and stay asleep through the night like I used to. I don’t want to be getting up 4 times a night to pee! I’d like to tell you that impending death looming doesn’t feel like the proverbial ax over my head since no one knows when they’ll die, or that age is ‘just a number’ and ‘it only matters how young you feel,’ but that’s all bullshit. You can skydive on your 90th but that doesn’t keep you from being old, and likely rather reckless with fragile bones.
I sigh heavily, then throw the blanket back and roll on my side trying to cool down with my third hot flash of the night. The weight of aging gets harder to bear with each passing year, month, day. Hate to tell ya, there ain’t much upside to getting old. We likely have more life experience, but we aren’t any wiser, most of us stuck in patterns of behavior we adopted in childhood, and the reason history keeps repeating itself.
Look at my phone on the nightstand next to my bed. It’s only 5:10am. I can get up and spend much of the day SMM my latest work to get read and try to ignore the fact that I viscerally hate marketing. Or I can laze the day away writing whatever moves me, reading, baking, building, get a massage, stream Netflix if I feel like it because why the hell not enjoy BEING ALIVE with the limited time I have left…
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