When Aspirations Fall Short

I’ve never met author Hannah Goodman, but I’m fortunate for having made a long-distance connection with her back in 2011 that led to the publication of two of my short stories.  Earlier this year, Ms. Goodman announced that the young adult periodical she founded, Sucker Literary Magazine, was on hiatus, which was a bummer, but more of a concern was the reason for the hiatus, which Hannah has bravely blogged about at www.writerwomyn.com.  For the past year or so she’s shared her journey with depression, anxiety and overcoming feelings of low self-worth in the midst of trying to find a publishing deal for her YA fiction.

In her most recent entry, she describes how the nurturing environment she experienced while obtaining her MFA took a sharp turn upon graduation, when she began to encounter "a serious problem with envy and comparing." Social media played a significant role in her struggles as she immersed herself in Facebook and Twitter to help bolster her career, and over time, as she sunk into a hole of constantly comparing herself to others' achievements, her self-esteem took a big hit.

Hannah had gone “all-in.”  She’d made huge sacrifices to obtaining her dream, but a few years after graduation she was in a therapist’s office, concluding that she was “a complete and utter failure and sham of a writer.”  Her perceived failures as a writer were projected on her roles in life, most notably those of wife and mother.  Fortunately, she is in much better place today. 

Hannah certainly isn't the only one to be adversely affected by social media. Several studies have shown a link between Facebook use and depressive symptoms, and as rough as social media can be for any of us, I think it can be especially cruel to the aspiring artist who’s sacrificed so much to follow a dream.   

Of course, following one’s dream doesn’t mean that you’ll earn a living at it, but society sometimes pushes us into thinking that we will.  I wrote about this last year after watching the marvelous film Twenty Feet from Stardom, in which the amazing Mary Clayton laments her failed attempts to achieve her own stardom.  In this blog I asked the question, “Are we entitled to earn a living doing what we love?”  I argued no.  It reminds me of a story a friend of mine told me about his son who decided to pursue jazz guitar performance a number of years ago.  During his first jazz ensemble rehearsal the instructor said, “All of you who are here to make a living playing music need to leave right now.  Those of you who can’t fathom living without playing jazz can stay.”

This is tough advice, but it’s good advice.  I don’t know if Ms. Goodman received a similar message while pursuing her MFA, and I don’t know if she would have stayed if she had, but she is now taking a break from pursuing a book deal (but not a break from writing) and is studying to become a licensed therapist.

We do what we love because we love to do it.  If we can make a living at it, even better, but we should never stop doing what we love.  Hannah certainly hasn’t.  She’s continues to write, and goodness, if there’s ever any doubt about whether she’s capable, read her marvelous entry, “We Need to Talk.”  It's amazing.

Um...now I’m making an envious comparison.  I better get off-line and start writing!

Taking the Plunge

It turns out that good things can happen as soon as you commit to them happening.

After dilly dallying for the past several months, on Sunday I began to work in earnest on my next album, a forthcoming effort to be entitled The Palisades. For me I always have to overcome a bit of reluctance to start one of these things, as I know that saying yes to recording an album means saying no to a host of other things that interest me, and I know it’ll take the better part of the next nine months or so to complete the project.

There’s also the fact that of the eleven proposed tracks for the album, only four have been written in their entirety.  Most require another verse or two or a bridge or a better chorus, so the songs I’ve committed to recording might ultimately fall by the wayside in a few months. But for now I’ve chosen eleven out of approximately twenty-five (largely uncompleted) compositions that will provide an overarching theme: mainly that of relationships, something I’ve largely avoided in most of my past efforts.

What’s cool is that once you truly delve into completing something, good things happen.  On Day One of my pursuit, I noodled around on the keyboard downstairs on a track called “Why Can’t You Be More Like They Are” – a song I started well over a decade ago – and determined that it needed an interesting intro.  After about a half an hour I came up with a solid chord progression that will serve quite nicely, and lo and behold, after playing it several times I decided it would also do well as a bridge to the song.  Sure enough, about ten minutes later I had a brand new bridge for a song that heretofore had none.  I’ll have to let it percolate for a few weeks before I determine if the new material makes the cut, but if asked today I’d put money on it staying.

Which only goes to show that @@once you set your mind to DO something, you do in fact begin to DO it.@@

There’s a pile of paper on my ping-pong table that includes countless ideas for a novel I’d like to begin writing, but lately the prospect of actually sifting through the material and beginning to write has been such daunting one that I’ve pursued almost anything else I can think of: vacuuming, dusting, walking the dog, cleaning out the litter box – you name it.  All are preferable to delving into the creative work that needs to be done.

Which explains why I’m recording a new CD.  It’s basically a way to avoid writing the book!  But hey, at least I’ll end up with something more fulfilling than a temporarily clean house.  Once the CD is complete, I will – I WILL – tackle the novel.  And I’ve no doubt that once I commit to doing so, it’ll all fall into place in a more effortless way than I might now imagine.

After I complete the book, I might even commit to painting the family room. Even writing a book seems preferable to that.

The Death of Communication

Communicating with each other has never been easier; what used to take days or weeks can now be accomplished in a split-second, and distance is no longer the constraint it once was.  My daughters both attend college in different time zones from me, and in the short time they’ve been way we’ve already texted, Skyped, emailed, called over the phone and even sent a few notes via US Mail.

So if communication has never easier then why are so many of us doing so little of it?

Much has been written about how young people’s personal communication skills are on the decline since the advent of texting and social networking, and to be sure, even anecdotally my daughters have reported difficulty meeting people – at college, no less – due to the lack of urgency: after all, when a person is alone, she can use her phone as a security blanket and therefore has little incentive to go through the awkward ritual of having to seek someone out, shake hands and make introductions.

But regardless of what’s happening in the huge social experiment of today’s youth, what about older folks?  I’m in my 40s.  Surely my generation communicates well with each other, right? 

My own personal experience – albeit not a statistically significant one – indicates otherwise.  Over the past few years I’ve been troubled by an increasing lack of communication among my generational brethren, and oddly enough, it even occurs at the electronic level where back and forth relays of information are particularly effortless.

I started thinking about this topic a few weeks ago, when during a conversation with my mom she mentioned how much she pines for the days when you could pick up a phone, call someone and expect an answer.  No caller ID.  No voicemail.  No waiting period during which you wonder whether your message has been a) received b) given to the person intended; c) forgotten about entirely or d) simply ignored. 

Initially I argued against my mother (surprise!) and suggested that caller ID and voicemail have been huge benefits.  They’ve shifted the power from the person making the call to the person receiving the call.  No longer am I obligated to answer the phone if it’s someone I don’t want to talk to (telemarketers, unknown numbers) or if the timing is poor (during dinner, heading out the door, going to bed).  No more am I forced to speak with a particular loquacious person who shall remain nameless when I know I’ve got to leave in five minutes to take my son to drum lessons.

But I’ve thought a lot about this topic since my mom and I spoke, and I’ve concluded that she’s onto something.  We generally no longer view voicemail messages as something that need to be addressed immediately, but rather view them as suggestions: something than can be addressed (or not) at some point in the future if it’s convenient.  Lately I’ve found this trend applies to other mediums as well.  During the past year I reached out via email to several friends I hadn’t seen in quite a while, and some of my messages were either never answered or were answered after a few months, and often very quickly.  (“Gotta make this short – really busy.”) 

A note to all people who keep announcing how busy their lives are: @@We’re all busy.  Get over yourselves.@@ 

The lost art of letter writing – which I still practice – of course fairs poorly, as most of my letters are not only never returned (which I understand and expect) but are also unacknowledged (which I don’t understand even if I’ve come to expect it), and more and more even texts – heretofore a medium that commanded immediate attention – have been addressed in the same manner as phone calls and emails.  They’re placed in the “get to it later when it’s convenient” pile, and often never followed up on.

Now, to be fair, I still send and receive hundreds of emails and texts every month, but these are typically of the “what time is the meeting on Tuesday?” or “Man the Brewers suck” variety: quick communications meant to share quick information.  For these types of correspondences texting and emails work very well. 

But here’s the question: what’s replaced the lengthy phone conversations and in-depth letters or email correspondences that we used to have with family and friends?  I’m afraid that in many cases those types of interactions have gone by the wayside. 

You might say, “Sure, Paul, but you're kind of an asshole, and it’s clear people want nothing to do with you.”

Fair enough, but I think this trend doesn’t stop with me.  Even among my close friends and family I haven’t noticed a lot of reaching out to others.  The following excerpt is from an op-ed piece in the Wall Street Journal last May:

…we spend so much time maintaining superficial connections online that we aren’t dedicating enough time or effort to cultivating deeper real-life relationships. Too much chatter, too little real conversation.

I think there’s something to this.  More and more I witness people proactively avoiding real communication.  Invitations to parties go unanswered or – and this really kills me – are declined without the offer of an alternative.  So, for example, an invitation to get together is answered with “Can’t that evening, sorry,” instead of “can’t that evening, but what about next Friday?”  This appears to be a growing trend, and I find it sad.

Back in the 90s I kept all of the letters I received and took copious notes of daily events and correspondences.  In an effort to organize some of my old crap recently, I plowed through several years’ worth of paper and was amazed at how many letters and phone calls I received on a regular basis, and not just from family and close friends.  Even people very much on the periphery of my life called to say hello or took a half an hour out of their lives to compose a letter to me.  Upon review, I was amazed by the number of correspondences I used to exchange with people.

These days, even the most modest attempts at real human interaction are often met with little more than a shrug of the shoulders.  I know.  I’m starting to sound like that old codger.  And I’m starting to agree with my mother.  Forecast for hell: a deep freeze.

But I think it’s time for each of us to start thinking about what’s important and what signals we’re sending to each other.  After all, is a person who you don’t see, don’t talk to and don’t respond to messages from really a friend?  If yes, in what sense?  If not, I’ve lost a boat-load of friends over the past few years.

Dang, that’s depressing.

I think to make myself feel a little better I’ll call someone up and leave a voicemail.

Feline or Foe?

I’m going to make a confession despite the ensuing calls that are sure to come from my daughters, my sister and my vet if they happen to read this blog.  Okay?  Here goes.  I would be happier if my two cats – the orange tabbies Fred and George Weasley Heinz – would suddenly…um…not be alive. 

There.  I said it. 

Now don’t get your undies in a bunch.  I promise not to go all “Apt Pupil” on them and commit felinicide.  (Haven’t read the Stephen King novella?  You should.)   I’m not insane.  But yes, the cats do, from time to time, drive me insane. 

“Oh, come on,” you might say.  “What on Earth could two cute little cuddly cats do to upset you so?”

Well, I’ll make a list of the things my two cats have ruined since they joined the family nine years ago, right after my sister’s dog paid a visit to my home and played with our two hamsters until they were dead, hence clearing the Heinz household slate as far as pets were concerned.   We had an opportunity to replenish our deceased pets with something grander.  A dog?  One would think, but no.  We heard about someone getting rid of two flea-ridden kittens (the adjective unknown to us until we got them home), so we took the bait, and here we are nine years and many ruined household items later.  Allow me to share the items my cats have destroyed either by tearing them apart with their teeth, knocking them over onto the floor, or via urination:

A futon mattress.

A futon cover.

A shower curtain.

Three bean bag chairs.

Dozens of stuffed animals.

Four pillows.

A rug.

Two antique vases that had survived for eight decades, only to last two nights in my home.

Two plants.

Countless cut flowers, to the point where we don’t buy flowers anymore, and if someone gets us some as a present, we store them on TOP OF THE REFRIGERATOR!

Several scarves.

Several gloves.

Several hats.

Several blankets.

Several sweaters.

Several Crocks.

A few pairs of flip-flops.

Still think I haven’t earned the right to be mildly disenchanted with my feline friends?

“Oh, but the joy they bring,” you say.

Yes, the vomit I’ve had to clean up on an almost weekly basis.  The litter boxes they’ve failed to hit with their apparently malfunctioning weaponry.  The rug I had to spray from edge to edge while using an ultraviolet light to illuminate virtually one big mass of cat urine.  The $1200 I spent bringing George back from the brink of death after he swallowed a toy.

Joyful indeed. 

We now have to keep our bedroom doors shut at all times because doing otherwise will invite the Weasley twins to tear apart clothing and any other moderately fuzzy artifact lying about in our house.  But here’s the thing:  on hot days when the air conditioner is running we have to keep our doors open, so lo and behold there were days this summer I spent vacuuming up the little plastic beads spilled from the torso’s of stuffed bears, lambs, and other assorted Beanie Babies.  And since our doors were open, the cats felt obliged to wake us up at 6AM for their morning breakfast, be it a work day or otherwise.

(I know what some of you are saying: “Paul, you don’t work anyhow, so who gives a shit?”  I DO work.  I work cleaning up after my two demon cats!)

We must be among the first generations of mankind to put up with this kind of nonsense.  Would an average Joe living in 1850 put up with this crap?  Of course not.  He’d kick the damn thing out of the house and maybe even drown it for good measure.  Hell, I know a person who shall not be named who took his wife’s cat away for the day for a “little trip,” and only one living organism returned.  The wife is much happier now as a widow.  (I’m only kidding, but not entirely.)

“@@ I know a someone who took his wife’s cat away for the day for a “little trip.” The wife is much happier now as a widow@@”

I will not resort murder, though a blurb in TIME Magazine last week certainly put me on edge.  Seems a cat in Oregon named Corduroy has claimed the title as the oldest living cat.  Get this: TWENTY-SIX YEARS!  And that’s NOTHING!  The oldest cat ever on record is Crème Puff, who lived to be over 38 years old!

So Fred and George, I promise to keep feeding you and keep cleaning out your litter boxes.  I promise to play with you and talk to you.  I promise to let you hang on me when I’m watching TV.  I promise to continue to spend a small fortune on your checkups with the vet.

But do you think you could promise to bow out gracefully after, say, another nine years or so?  That seems like a fair deal, don’t you think?

Squire's Death and Concert Memories

I was shocked upon hearing the news earlier this week of Yes bassist Chris Squire’s death at age 67.  I didn’t worship or even revere Squire – the last time I saw him perform, my main impression of him was that he could lose about fifty pounds and definitely lose the leather pants – but he was one of those guys back in the early 80s that inspired me and my love for music.  And as I read the details of his passing, it occurred to me that this is only the beginning.  If you’re a music fan of the old bands from the 60s and 70s, the next couple of decades are going to be rough.

I went through a mental list of all the performances I’ve seen since I saw Billy Squire at Summerfest in 1981 with my buddy John, followed by Crosby, Stills and Nash and Rush the following year.  The truth is that except for a few supporting members like Clarence Clemens and Danny Federici of the E Street Band, Howie Epstein of the Heartbreakers and two of the Wilson brothers of Beach Boys fame, the guys I’ve watched perform are still around and still performing, which is something I never fathomed.  When I saw Yes for the first time in 1984 I recall thinking that a whole fifteen years had passed since the band originated and that I was lucky to be seeing them before they call it a day.  Well, now more than double that period of time has passed, and lo and behold, Yes will be performing this August in Chicago.  Crazy.  I mean, who would have thought back in 1982 that in 2015 you could see The Who, Rush, Yes, Paul McCartney, Elton John, and CSN? Insane.

But here we are in 2015, and Squire’s passing has prompted me to try to recall all the concerts I’ve seen over the years.  Unlike some of my prolific concert-seeing buddies, I’ve never been a huge live music guy.  I see a few big concerts a year, maybe a small one every couple of years, and that’s about it.  And with me, I tend to see the same bands over and over (Rush, Rufus Wainwright, Bed Folds).  I’m happy to say that most of these guys are still around (I just remembered seeing Big Country in 1993, and sadly, Stuart Adamson is no longer with us).  It’ll be very sad to see more of these guys go, as more and more of my record collection turns into a sort of memorial to artists of yesterday.

Here’s my list.  Not included are the 12 or 13 times I saw Pat McCurdy, and many of the bands listed were opening acts or part of a larger event (Steve Miller in 1994, for example).

’80 – Off Broadway (from the back!  I didn’t realize kids got discounted tickets for lower grand stand seats).

’81 – Billy Squire

’82 – CSN, Rush

’83 – Beach Boys, Supertramp, Genesis

’84 – Yes, Bruce Springsteen, Spyro Gyra, Rod Stewart, Elton John

’85 – Jean Luc Ponty, The Tubes and Utopia, Til Tuesday and Tom Petty, Patrick Moraz and Bill Bruford, Supertramp

’86 – Leo Kottke, Marillion and Rush, GTR, Julian Lennon, The Moody Blues

’87 – Peter Gabriel, Paul Simon, Tom Petty

’88 – Sting, Bruce Hornsby

’89 – Elvis Costello, BoDeans, Violent Femmes and Cowboy Junkies and Edie Brickell, Joe Jackson

’90 – Innocence Mission, Billy Joel, Jimmy Buffet, Rush

’91 – Blake Babies (I think this year?), Elvis Costello, Al Stewart, The Guffs, Innocence Mission, Rush

’92 – Genesis, John Mellencamp, Indigo Girls, Randy Newman, Wallflowers and 10,000 Maniacs

’93 – Michelle Shocked, Da Da and Sting, Big Country, The Connells

’94 – Rush, Melissa Etheridge and Steve Miller and Natalie Merchant, The Pretenders

’95 – Van Morrison, They Might Be Giants, Elvis Costello

’96 – Wynton Marsalis, James Taylor

’97 – Bar Scott (I think this year?).  Generally lost in parenthood, Broadway plays and living in Allentown

‘98 – Lost in parenthood, Broadway plays and living in Allentown

‘99 – Bruce Springsteen, but generally lost in parenthood, Broadway plays and living in Allentown

’00 – Joe Jackson, but generally lost in parenthood, Broadway plays and living in Allentown

’01 – Eve 6, Joe Jackson, Paul Simon, Yes, Ben Folds

’02 – Harry Connick, Jr., Rush, Paul McCartney, Yes, Ben Folds

’03 – Joe Jackson, Leo Kottke, Tom Petty, The BoDeans, Steve Earle, Jackson Browne, Randy Newman

’04 – Yes, Rufus Wainwright and Ben Folds, Patti Austin, Harry Connick, Jr., Barenaked Ladies, Marc Cohn

’05 – Paul McCartney, James Taylor, Indigo Girls

’06 – um…what the heck was I doing?

’07 – Rufus Wainwright, Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers

’08 – Randy Newman, Yes

’09 – Steely Dan

’10 – Company of Thieves, Craig Ferguson, Rufus Wainwright

’11 – Yes, Weird Al Yankovic, Rufus Wainwright, Paul Simon, Sting

’12 – The Hush Sound, James Taylor, Rufus Wainwright, Bruce Springsteen, Rush, Joe Jackson, Ben Folds Five

’13 – Sara Bareilles, Rush, Barenaked Ladies, Ben Folds Five, Paul McCartney, A Silent Film

’14 – Roger Hodgson, Devo and Arcade Fire, Jackson Browne, James Taylor

’15 – The Who, Rufus Wainwright, Graham Parker, Rush