Monthly Archive: January 2013

A THANK YOU FROM IRV

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January 31, 2013

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January 31, 2013

Thank you!

There’s an Uber Rule in blogging. KEEP THE POSTS SHORT!

I wrote about it last month, confessing that I break that rule all the time. I break all the blog rules, which should reduce my web exposure.

That’s the case. I don’t have many followers.

So if you’ve returned to my world to read this tome, and you read it to the end, you are part of a select group of very special people in my life.

 

You know me. I don’t know you. Can you imagine what this feels like?

Blogging to a group that leaves no comments is like lecturing in a huge hall of empty chairs where the listeners are seated behind a wall in another room. If there’s a reaction, I don’t know about it. If there’s discussion, I don’t hear it. The only way I can tell anyone’s listening is by counting your shares to friends and the site hits with Google Analytics.

You leave footprints in my house but leave without saying goodbye.

But no consternation implied. None of this is wrong. I’ve set it up this way, and I don’t know any other way to do it.

*****

There are two blogs that interest me. Both are hosted by women. They have a huge spread over the internet and get ton of comments for each post. Both women are famous now.

Blog number one is eclectic, switching back and forth between business advice and the exposure of her family traumas. She writes stories of struggle and receives I-know-what-you-mean condolences and sincere thank you’s for the soulful connection.

The second site is more structured and the host invites guest bloggers. They all follow her format, which is:

Lead in with a wise quote from someone smarter than you and me. Tell your down-and-out BEFORE story followed by your rise-to-success AFTER story. Establish how enlightened and spiritually evolved you are now, and end the post with your formula for everlasting bliss.

This site gets a slew of I-know-what-you-mean comments and sincere thank you’s for the soulful connection.

  • Blog number one’s message: Life is a battle you may never win but keep trying. I am.
  • Blog number two’s message: Life is a battle you can win if you just keep trying. I am.
  • Irving’s message: I have no idea what I’ll come up with each week, but if you keep reading, I’ll keep writing.

Obviously this approach is not the best formula for worldwide fame…or selling my novels. But like I said, I don’t follow rules. I don’t know how. I’m just glad I don’t get into trouble or hurt people.

*****

So this week’s post is about my appreciation of your company, the party I’ve thrown where I don’t meet my guests.

Woman blogger number one once stated that she writes her posts for validation and the feeling that she’s not alone. Woman blogger number two said she writes her posts to help us find happiness.

I write my blog because I’d feel like a quitter if I gave it up. Honestly, I have no driving need to get the word out. I started this blog because all marketing gurus said that an internet presence is a must for new authors. Right now it’s homework. But like I said, if you’re reading these words, then I may have some relevance in your life, and if that’s the case, I don’t want to let you down.

And when you share my post with others, I’m extremely flattered. I highly value your time, attention and respect. If I’ve sparked any new ideas or helped make your day richer in some way, I’m glad I can do that.

When that stops, I’ll stop.

I don’t know how long I’ll feel comfortable lecturing in an empty hall. But as I said, when it’s time to put down the pen, you’ll let me know.

One more thing: A special thanks to Jerry’s Cousin.

You have shared your thoughts with me since the beginning of these columns. I appreciate your words, JC, and especially your support. My sincere best wishes to you and your family.

And one more that after that last thing: Thank you, Eugene and Alisa, for inviting me to Curiosity Quills. You’ve helped me without asking for anything in return. Who does that anymore?

Irv

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How to Make a Day Special

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January 24, 2013

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January 24, 2013

iStock_000005196861XSmallIt’s 2:27 pm. I’m drinking my very best single malt, a Surfer’s sundown dram, #53.154, aged 17 years and one of only 462 bottles. Why am I drinking this malt in the afternoon? Why am I drinking at all?

My life is in flux right now. Income left me, and not on my terms. I’ve been out of work for months and I tapped retirement funds a year and a half early. This doesn’t mean I won’t take another project if one comes along. But it’s unlikely, and my first pension check made me feel old and financially vulnerable.

Now over the years I’ve attended enough self-help lectures to claim Guruhood myself. I know the think-and-grow-rich edict; assume money will never run out, BELIEVE in ABUNDANCE, that the Universe listens, that you only get what you expect, so expect GOOD things!

Don’t get me wrong. I think a positive attitude can make your world a sunny place, for people who believe it does. I want to believe it does too. I want to believe in belief, and have from time to time. Once I kept score about those times that I didn’t believe, spent the money anyway and did NOT fall off a cliff. I think safety stayed in place ‘cause residual TRUST was hiding in my heart.

So you’d think that after all these years, I would’ve acquired the faith to unquestionably BELIVE it’s all gonna work out, that the money will come for food and gas and those $400 Bose computer speakers I want. My eight year-old Harman/Kardon’s finally cracked.

And you’d think I would have memorized the saintly rules too; that by giving to charity and people begging in the street, abundance flows back to you. Give and you shall receive…or something like that.

IMG_0412On certain days, like today, I believe it, sort of. At least I give it the benefit of the doubt, because at Smart & Final, I have to. Everyday local folk set up their donation table outside the exit door, like the photo I provided here. As you stroll past them with your loaded cart, they ask you to help another soul stay alive.

Most shoppers avoid eye contact, pretending they didn’t hear the ex-battered women or recovered addict explain that the money he’s collecting is for those less fortunate. And whether you contribute or not, as you leave that space, he’ll bless you on behalf of the Most Powerful Force in the Universe.

I’m not thrilled about Smart & Final blessings, but when all you need are paper towels, tissues, distilled water and a bag of chips, you risk meeting the worthy-cause people with their pictures and signs and box where the money goes.

*****

So as I was saying, this day I was feeling somewhat optimistic and approaching the store, I saw what would be waiting for me at the exit – a bearded white guy my age with a money box for some noble cause.

And as I’m checking out, as I always do in Smart & Final, I’m asking myself if I’m in a giving mood. Do I feel needy or abundantly confident? And if survival looks promising, how much will I give?

You know, if you stick a bill into their box really fast, and hide it with your fingers as you push it into the slot, they won’t be able to tell if you gave a buck or five or ten.

Does anybody give ten? And if they do, does it really go to orphans, or to the people making us feel guilty with their pictures of a wretched world?

I hate being manipulated. I hate being pressured about anything, which is why I’m really bad at sales. The Golden Rule kicks in. And now the man at the exit with his short gray beard is talking about homeless people and how a dollar would help a poor soul from going hungry. I’m not listening, ‘cause as my eyes shift away, I’m thinking this sure feels like a guilt trip and I role my cart towards my car.

But then, lifting the hatch, I look back. Other people are ignoring him too. I know that’s his job, to get ignored until someone finally gives, but still, this makes me feel sad because he looks like he’s taking care of himself, like he got his life back together and is making a difference in some small way.

But wait. Suppose this is a scam, like those young men who knock on your front door and explain they’re working their way through med school by selling magazine subscriptions.

And then I think, scam or not, sometimes ya gotta take a chance. He was probably homeless once and somebody like me helped him get whole again. What’s a few dollars? I’m not THAT desperate.

So I look into my wallet. All I have is two tens. I pay everything with one credit card so I can rack up free airline miles and visit Mom.

Just two tens. Will he give change? Too embarrassing. I know! I’ll scoot back into Smart & Final and buy a candy bar. Nah. I hate candy bars. But the bananas are on sale.

WHAT AM I THINKING!

How can I be so cheap? What does ten dollars buy anymore? (Plenty. I don’t answer that.) Still, last night was sushi night and I blew away twenty-three bucks for 45 minutes of raw fish which departed this morning in my bathroom. I can afford to feed a poor soul, assuming the ten stays out of the pockets of that man at the table.

So I return my cart to it’s home and I walk over to the feed-the-homeless guy. And to show him how generous I am, I extend the folded ten spot instead of pushing it into the box slot.

And he says to me, in eloquent diction, “Thank you for taking the time to return here and support our cause.”

Wow! Revelation! This guy was never homeless. His clean and manicured nails, sporty jacket, new baseball cap, designer glasses, and especially his vibe tells me he’s from my world, and probably drives that shiny red Escalade over there.

I answer with a throw-away, “Of course.”

And he says, without looking at my bill in his hand, “Would you like a receipt for tax deductions?”

I shake my head, no, thinking, Why? So I can feel even more shitty about doubting you?

Honestly, this man felt like Jesus; kind, generous and all-knowing. There was something about his confident tone, his sincere appreciation of my trying to do the right thing, that subtly conveyed he was a better man than me. And without a “God bless you.”

Then, with a smile he let me go. My lesson was over and he turned his attention to a stout Black lady who was about to accept his grace.

I floated back to my car gleefully uplifted. Everything felt right! And when I got home I played my drums, called two friends, opened my best single malt and wrote this story.

*****

What’s the message?

Next time you approach a card table in a parking lot, stop and listen to the person asking for help. Your donation just might not be a donation at all, but the gift of joy coming back to you.

 

This post was originally posted on Curiosityquills.com.

 

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DYING – CAN YOU WRITE ABOUT THAT?

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January 17, 2013

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January 17, 2013

There’s a funny thing about dying. It’s happening everywhere – in our movies, our games, our books, on the news, in our families and schools and churches. But when it comes to thinking about our own demise, most of us push that to the back of the drawer.

“Nope, won’t happen to me. Not any time soon.”

That’s our grounding. And for anyone younger than twenty, real death is off the game board.

I find it interesting that our Western culture is obsessed with death, but in such a way that we pretend it’s no big deal. Why are fantasy stories so popular? Why have fairytales and myths been around forever? Because within this I-wish-it-were-so world, death IS no big deal. And in many cases, it doesn’t exit. Souls rise from their graves, gods become mortal, mortals become gods with forever-after lives.

Thousands of characters die on the silver screen every year and those actors continue to play in more movies where they die again. See? It’s not real.

Mortal Kombat is all about killing and the player’s last Fatality, which is a gruesome way of murdering his or her defeated opponent. Do the gamers die? Of course not. They live on and read the spin-off comic books, play the card game and watch the movies.

Yea! Death! So much fun! None of it’s real…until a psychotic young man opens fire in a theater or class room. And even then it’s a news headline; a concept of extinction, unless it’s someone you know and love.

How do our armed forces train our soldiers? They break down individualism to create a human combat machine which neutralizes the enemy. That ‘bad guy” carrying a gun is a target, like games in an arcade.

As a culture, as long as we have distance from the killing fields, we Americans have desensitized ourselves about death, until it knocks on our door. Then there’s pain.

WHAT DOES DYING HAVE TO DO WITH WRITING?

Nothing, if you’re creating a fantasy where your characters move back and forth over the threshold of death.

Everything, if you’re writing a story set in the real world.

But what IS your real world?

If you are molding a character without physical vulnerabilities or fears about vulnerability, what kind of jeopardy, if any, are you describing?

If your heroine isn’t scared for her life when she should be, as a reader why would you be concerned about her?

We all know that fear inhibits our performance and ability to make the best decisions. Fear makes us want to run. If every soldier did that, we wouldn’t have wars. Which is why fear is not an option on the battle field and there are many psychological ways of diminishing it. I won’t list them here.

But there’s a fact I will state: A suicide bomber, in real life or fiction, is not a hero. A hero is a person who is afraid to die and yet moves past those fears to stop destruction and save lives.

  • How much risk and fear are you allowing your heroes to feel?
  • How much of an internal struggle are you giving them to do the task they have to do?
  • How much stress are you applying on your readers to make them feel your hero’s tension?

These are tools of our dramatic trade. But guess what? In certain genres, real trauma might be best kept in the drawer, as it already is. And here’s why.

Audiences for books and movies vary, but I think most readers and viewers prefer to keep their personal vulnerability walled off from the book, movie or interactive game.

In other words, spectators wants to see or read about violence, but without becoming internally involved. Sure, readers expect emotional jolts. But those feelings aren’t personal. The carnage on the page is not in bed with the girl reading about it. And when she closes the book and turns off the light, there’s a feeling of satisfaction knowing it was all just a yarn.

And that’s fine. That’s entertainment.

*****

But there’s another level of writing that takes on more responsibility. It addresses death for real. The dying can be mental, as in dementia and advanced senility. Death can be psychological, as with the loss of control, like loosing the use of one’s body. Dying can be the heart break of lowering your beloved wife of fifty years into her grave.

There are many ways to die. As a writer, are you willing to feel death’s fear and loss to authentically put it into words?

And if you do write about it, why are you doing that? What are you trying to say by expressing and conveying pain and suffering?

If you are injecting scary thoughts into a story for the sake of a rush, then you are writing horror, and the message is: This story is an emotional roller coaster. But it’s not real. And as the reader, you are safe.

If you are depicting human vulnerability for any other reason, I would hope your message would be: Try to understand. Your adversary suffers as you do, but for reasons opposed to yours.

If you are authoring stories about kill-or-be-killed combat, perhaps your message will be: War destroys, rarely bringing peace forever. Collateral damage is the death of innocent people. Are there other ways to settle this conflict?

*****

I’ll continue to be frank here. With the current trends, most people would rather read about vampire romance and serial killers than a tale about real cancer or the senseless killing in war. Most writers would rather write about a handsome, sexy werewolf or young adult angst than author a story about a devoted husband accepting his wife’s deformity after a crash.

For the debut writer, the market for “real life” is limited. And writing “real life” is difficult. Still, it’s a learning process that should not be skipped.

Going inside to that sad place is not pleasant or even easy. But if you can reach those feelings, if you can reach your denied vulnerability and get it right on the page, you will also reach other souls yearning for uplifting truths. You will remind them how fragile we all are, and how easy it is to hurt someone else, and why we should avoid it.

One can kill a person’s joy with six cruel words, or kindle love with five of kindness. Will you think about that? Will you write about it? If you do, you’ll touch the spirit of your muse, and our hearts as well.

 

Soldier photograph from the Seattle Times

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Being True to Yourself – Irv Takes that On

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January 10, 2013

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January 10, 2013

“I don’t know what to do. Tried to start. Couldn’t.”

“Start what?” asks my therapist.

I asked for that question. Gotta talk this out.

“Start the calls,” I answer. “Mark told me all I need is fifteen write-ins. Just fifteen favors from my list of fifty yes-or-no’s.”

“Yes or no about what?”

“Yes or no about whether my film gets nominated. It’s Hollywood’s award season again.”

“Why is this an issue?”

“Because, I explain, “last week you told me I really, actually, don’t want to be rich and famous, even though I think I do. This might be another reason why you’re right.”

“Is a nomination good for you?”

“Yeah”

“Are you avoiding it?”

“I just don’t wanna make the calls.”

“Then don’t.”

“But that’s what people do.”

Except me, I’m thinking. I should want to, but I don’t. Or can’t. Or maybe I can, if my therapist can talk me into feeling okay about it. She’s good at this. She makes me feel safe.

I turn to her. She’s sitting five feet away, her long slender legs crossed under her knee-length skirt. They’re perfect, right down to her ankles. And they’re perfect too. I’d like to see her feet. Maybe she paints her toes, all different colors, like M&M’s.

My doc leans towards me in her chair. “Irv, where are we going with this?”

Right now? A marriage proposal. But I don’t say that. She’s gay…and committed, and I should start my story. I do.

“Last year Craig phoned me. He wanted me to vote for his movie, for an Academy Award nomination. He said he knew it was shameful to ask, ‘cause years ago we had this huge falling out. But he wanted the favor anyway.”

“Okay…”

“But I didn’t do it. And not because he’s an A-1 asshole. His work didn’t compete with the others. But get this. He got nominated anyway! And I always wondered how many dudes he begged to get that.”

“Did he win?”

“Nope. But the nomination scored him and his wife orchestra seats at the Oscars and tickets to the Governor’s Ball, a super exclusive thing.”

“So Craig’s calls paid off.”

“Yep. And this year he bid against me on another film and got it. Producers hire the most famous people they can get.”

“So nominations are important.”

“Well…for Academy Awards, sure. For the craft awards, not so much.”

“Still, among your peers, the ceremonies and events keep your exposure up. Right?”

“I suppose.”

“Yet you don’t want to make the calls for your own nomination?”

“I make calls, about all kinds of stuff.” This couch is getting really hard. “But I don’t want to be phony about it.”

“How would you be phony?”

“I would be calling people I don’t consider my friends and asking for votes as if they were my friends.”

“I see.”

She leans back in her chair jotting down some words. I wonder if she likes me. I think she does. I think she understands me. And all my junk. Might as well dump the rest of it.

“There’s the rejection part too.”

Her eyes come back to me. “Irv, all winners deal with losing. They learn from it.”

“Well that’s them. I’m not good at it.” Like she didn’t know that already. But another story would help explain why.

“I’m a member of the Executive Committee of my branch in the Academy. Maybe nine or ten years ago, David, the out-going governor and one of our three committee heads, told me that he thought I would be right for his replacement and I should let people know I’m interested in running for his chair. But David also warned that I had to be discrete because politicking and soliciting is really frowned upon in the Academy.”

“This sounds like a big deal.”

“Not really. But a lot of people think it is. And I started to think so too.”

“So at the next Academy mixer, or a party or whatever, I approached governor number two. Matt wasn’t up for re-election, and so I told him I wanted a shot at David’s seat and asked, “Will you help me with that?”

“Now, of all the people on the board, I knew Matt most of all. Matt and his wife, Maria, were guests at our July 4th drop-in the year before. So when I asked for Matt’s support, I didn’t expect a blank stare.

“He turned you down?”

“It was humiliating. Of all the people I had to ask, Matt, a governor of our Academy branch, was THE most important and he was the closest thing to being my friend. But even that so-called friend wouldn’t give me his vote.”

My analyst scribbles more notes. “How did you react?”

“I stopped the whole thing. I wasn’t supposed to be campaigning anyway.”

“But you say people do.”

“Right. Two weeks later I got a call from Garry. He wanted that job, like everybody wanted it. But Garry was phoning everyone on the board, pleading!”

“Did it make a difference?”

“Yep. He snatched the prize – a seat on the Academy’s Board of Governors, and tickets to the Academy Awards and all the parties with the all the famous people.”

“Which propelled his career,” she adds.

“Actually, two years later he got fired from the studio he was working for. Nobody’s supposed to talk about it.”

She looks at me, as if to ask, ‘Why was he fired?’ But ask, she does not, which is good ‘cause I can’t tell her. Well I can, but I don’t want to. It’s not my story.

“What does all this mean to you?” comes from my doc, breaking the silence.

“It reinforces what I’ve felt all along. I don’t compete very well. I feel cheap asking for power boosts. So I don’t.”

“Are you asking, or offering your service?”

“Depends,” I answer fast, having thought about this a lot. “I’ve been asked to join clubs and help out. And I have. I’ve even been asked to head professional groups, and I’ve done that too. But pressuring people for something personal, like a nomination… Which, I guess…” My eyes wander to the ceiling. “Would be a good if I can get it.”

Again the room falls into a hush. I’m sort of waiting for my doc’s work-around. Professionally this thing is a no-brainer – go for the status. But then there’s me…in the way of that.

“Irv?” she mutters again.

I turn. She’s wrapping this up. I can tell when she lowers her voice.

“What’s bothering you the most? Getting rejected or feeling like a manipulator?”

“The manipulation part.”

“But is asking for support, manipulation?”

“Not if I’ve been giving. Not if it’s all balanced.”

“Explain that.”

“It’s about sharing and caring. If I haven’t given something to someone; like my help, my time, my friendship, even ten minutes of sincere concern, I don’t feel justified asking for anything. I don’t want to be a user.”

“Which you believe is…”

“Making someone feel obligated to help me.”

“Which is something you don’t like being done to you.”

“No.”

She puts down her pad, concluding with, “Then Irv, all you can do, is be is yourself.”

I knew she’d say that. I come back with, “But suppose that’s not good enough?”

“Irving, you’re good enough for me.”

She’s smiling…at me! Now I’m grinning. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“And I’m not a wuss if I don’t do the calls?”

“No. You’re fine just the way you are. Now all you need to do, is believe you’re good enough for yourself.”

“Okay. I’ll try. Promise. But let’s talk about how I’m good enough for YOU.”

 

Originally posted on Curiosityquills.com.

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A New Year, A New Therapy Session

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January 3, 2013

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January 3, 2013

“What is your life about, Irv?”

That again. I’m supposed to visit my soul, as if I’ve never gone there before, as if today I’ll find an escape out of the gloom and float free.

“What?” I answer, pretending I didn’t understand.

“What is your life about?” repeats my lady shrink.

Okay, so this is how we start 2013.

“My life is about…” I pause, rolling my eyes, like I’m going deep. “I guess my life is about, what my life ISN’T about; the stuff I wanted to happen but couldn’t get done.”

“Yes, we covered that,” she says, adjusting her black framed glasses. “You don’t feel good enough. But for now I want you to throw that thought away. Think about what you HAVE accomplished and why, and the choices you’ve made to avert the things you wanted.”

Wait… This is new. Avert the things I wanted? I look at her. “You’re saying I’ve deliberately failed?”

“Irv,” she continues, “I’m breaking all the rules here but your resistance is getting in the way. So here’s my uncensored professional opinion.”

“One… Some, if not all of the things you want, or think you want, is NOT what you want. Not at your core.”

“And two… If you do want something and you’re clear about it, you’re not willing to conform to the rules to get it. Or make the sacrifices. So you really don’t want those things as much as you think you do.”

“You don’t know me,” I assert, with a tone of indignation.

“I know this much,” she says. “It’s more important to know WHY you want something, than just wanting it.”

“It’s not complicated. I want to accomplish something important.”

“But why? Because the answer to that, is key to your happiness. And Irv, you’re not happy.”

“For a few seconds a year I am.”

“Why are you unhappy the rest of the time?”

Man, she always goes there! “I was born that way!”

“C’mon, Irv.”

“I told you! I’m not succeeding!”

“In getting what you DON’T want?”

“No, I want it.”

“What?”

“We’ve discussed it. As crass as it sounds, I want to be rich and famous.”

“Why?”

“For the same reasons now as last year. If I were in demand, my life would be secure. And money solves problems.”

“It didn’t save Steve Job.”

“Yeah! I want to be like him, but nicer.”

“And alive.”

“Well, there’s that.”

“So how much fame and fortune is enough?” she asks me, clicking her pen to write.

“Enough so I never have to worry about it. Enough so wherever I go, I have friends.”

“Like Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber have fans?”

“Like Warren Buffett has devotees.”

“So you want admirers.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No.”

“WHAT? Everyone wants to be liked and loved!”

“Yes. But many people believe they already are.”

“I’m liked and loved.”

“But you say, not enough.”

“Is this the part where I blame my parents?”

“Irv, you will never reach those goals because they are not YOU. What you have, what you’ve done, THAT is who you are.”

“Then I don’t want to be who I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m destined for greatness!”

“Who told you that?”

“Everybody!”

“They lied. You’re slightly better than average.”

God! That hurt!

Lying on her couch, I turn away and look at the wall, which could use a coat of paint above the paneling. And knotty pine is so OUT, like forty years ago out.

I hear a tissue being pulled from the box. I extend my arm and she hands me a wad of Kleenex, which now goes to my eyes to dry them.

“What’s wrong with being average?” she asks, as if she didn’t know the answer.

My head pivots back to her. “What’s wrong with being average? I’ll disappear into the throngs! I’ll blend in and no one will notice me. Or even find me. Or care! Because if I’m just another marble in the box, my value is zip! Why would people want to love me if I’m just another dot in the landscape?”

“People will value you, if you value THEM. Making a difference is not about people loving YOU. It’s about you loving people.”

I hate advice like that.

“Are you loving people, Irv?”

Another loaded question, which will not get answered.

“Irv… Look at me.”

“No!” I bark. “I’m not into warm and fuzzy! I tried it over and over and got shot down!”

“And why was that?”

“How the hell do I know? Most people are selfish, uncaring, insensitive and greedy! Not to mention boring! So we didn’t click. There’s nothing I can do about it!”

“You can be tolerant and less critical.”

“And phony? You want me to be phony to get along? I HATE phony! I hate people pretending to care about me when they don’t. And I hate pretending the same thing!”

She writes a note. “So you steer around the selfish, uncaring, insensitive, greedy and boring crowds; the ones you want to admire you.”

I don’t need this! My eyes dart to the ceiling, a place I hide when sessions go south.

Oh… That’s new. Those two broken acoustic tiles got replaced. But they don’t match. They’re snowy white and all the old ones are dingy gray. They should make gray tiles to match the… Wow. This ceiling’s gotta be seventy years old.

“Irv…”

I glance to my right.

“You’re ignoring me,” she states.

“No I’m not. I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Your office needs a remodel.”

“Anything about you?

“You mean, like, I want to be liked by people I don’t like?”

“And?”

“And, what?”

“Why would people like you if you don’t like them?”

“They don’t know I don’t like them.”

She lowers her pad, looking me in the eyes. “You can’t hide feelings.”

“You always say that.”

“Do you believe it?”

“On Thursdays.”

She groans. “Irv, what’s your impression of the world’s population?”

“It’s in trouble.”

“Do want to be part of that trouble?”

“Who would?”

“So you’re telling me you want fame and fortune from a world you don’t want to live in. Can you see how that might be a contradiction?”

“I didn’t start out that way. I wanted to fit in.”

“Did you?”

“No. Growing up I never had many friends. I didn’t feel comfortable in clubs. Didn’t hang out with buddies after school or work. Still don’t. I guess that’s just me: Different…but average.”

“You’ve told me your wife loved you.”

“Totally. I could never figure out why. And then she died.”

“Do you love yourself, Irv?”

“What’s to love? I’m average.”

“Are you kind to others?”

“I try to be.”

“Generous?”

“Not enough. Dana was always giving to charities and needy people. It’s not natural for me to give away money but I do it anyway, on principle.”

“Do you help friends and colleagues when they ask for it?”

“Of course.”

“Do you thank people for their help and gifts?”

“Absolutely. Because I would want them to thank me.”

“And you reciprocate their interest in you?

“All the time. If they’re really my friends.”

“Then what’s not to love about you? What more is expected of anyone?”

Man, what universe is SHE living in? We’re all competing, and not everyone can come in first. Or even tenth. My mind goes to my earliest days, as I mutter, “Someday you’ll make it.”

“What did you say?” she asks.

“Someday you’ll make it,” I repeat, raising my head. “That’s what my dad always said, even into my thirties. Someday you’ll make it.”

“Well Irv. That’s it. You’ve become your own father. You’ve got to stop the judgments…the beatings…the torture of trying to prove yourself TO yourself.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Yes,” she nods. “But you have to try. That’s what ‘making it’ is all about.”

 

This post originally published on Curiosityquills.com.

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