I love writing about 4-letter words. Mort Castle beat me to this one about five months ago. He wrote about LUCK. Didn’t say whether it was good luck or bad, but from the standpoint of whether wild cards get dealt into our lives from some unseen dealer or we just parlay fear and coincidence into a gestalt and call it chance, it doesn’t matter. To have more of one kind of luck is to have less of the other, so I’ll be covering them both either directly or by inference. Here’s what I blogged Mort after his column…
Sully said…
I’ve been snake-bit and I’ve been lucky to the point where you tremble with gratitude. Maybe it’s just a matter of semantics to call it “luck.” Maybe the gods of irony are having their game. The improbabilities in my corner of the universe are convincing, though. I don’t challenge them. For every time I’ve paid the price in frustration, futility, incredibly bad timing, it seems like there’s a transcendent moment or a fortuitous meeting that saves or changes a life – mine. And once, my son’s. Or is that all the scorekeeper’s bias? If you try to keep track, you invite the silver pinball to track a new route. We are tokens in a cosmic game. Don’t mess with the players.
Hey, Mort, dunno how the hell you came up with “luck” as a topic, but it was…uh, lucky. Opens up some ephemeral possibilities in this blog for me, and man, you know I don’t stick to the rules very often.
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
I guess what I’m really interested in here is that bit about the gods of irony. That’s the face I’ve put on my own mysteries of coincidence, clustering, superstition, fate, karma, kismet, paranoia, destiny, fear and hope. Underline hope. Because if you’re a writer – or any player in the game of fame and fortune – then by definition you’re caught up in the psychology of hope.
I like to believe that hope gets the ball rolling. For those who reach for any distinction, it is their first spark of independence, of yearning for perfection, their first dare to rise above the mandated herd mentality. But it has an evil twin. A 4-letter twin, of course. Fear. Hard to have one without the other. Because if you are impertinent enough to hope for some sort of excellence or wide-spread acceptance, then you fear failure and rejection. And if you live in an emotional bunker, never risking failure, it means those fears are worried sick about whatever it is you secretly want and hope for. I guess most of us choose which one to listen to in our up and down moments. In my sidewise observation of human nature, fears come first, because if you ignore something that could kill you, it could…um, kill you. Hope is more a leisure time thing (of course, you can “hope” you don’t get killed, but don’t badger me with semantics). You know what I mean. We take care of our fears first. On the other hand, if we give fear too much power over our lives, guess what happens? Yeah. Nothin’. We stay in the middle of the pack where we don’t risk wolves picking us off, but our individuality gets trampled and smothered. We live by other people’s expectations in a way that doesn’t make them feel that their values are being challenged, and society rewards us with nice, sterile acceptance. I think you get tears or something when you check-out for the big dirt nap at the end of life. If I sound bitter, it’s because I’m one of those unrepentant romantic idealists who can’t live any other way. I want acceptance on my terms. In fact, acceptance from others isn’t important except to give me a voice. To miss all the excellence I want is like not breathing; it’s like living my life in theory instead of for real. As The Bard wrote: “To thine own self be true…” Hey, what do you expect, he was a writer.
So the whole point for those who hope for perfection in the first place is that we’re willing to risk what fear doesn’t want us to go for. And because perfection is rare, persevering is the name of the game. You hear the mantra in every field of endeavor: “Stay the course,” “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,” “Quitters never win and winners never quit,” “That which builds slowly endures,” “What, me worry?” – just wanted to see if you were paying attention on that last one. Success at the high end of uniqueness is rare precisely because attrition pares away all but the worthy who dare to aspire to perfection.
So in that environment of hope and fear, naturally everyone is looking for a leg up. That’s where luck comes in, good and bad. And superstition. You could call it a control issue. When you run out of ways to control your fate, you start to notice the spooky stuff that might be throwing you curves or rewarding you. Like what hat you were wearing the day you got a hole-in-one, or that whenever you see a certain commercial you get bad news, or which mailbox you used to send in your ms when an editor actually wrote back a personal rejection letter. The live letter suggested that you seek therapy and never have children, but hey, a personal touch is nice. We really haven’t come that far from early hunter/gatherer societies who talked to trees and sacrificed their virgins to appease volcanoes (thereby proving that abstinence isn’t always good).
While courting good luck or avoiding bad can be just frivolous fun, or even mildly motivational, people who reach for brass rings often struggle with a crippling mind-set when frustration or rejection become overwhelming. It comes with the territory, if you’re a writer. You work in isolation for long periods of time, and when you are finished you come blinking into the light all vulnerable and unsure, and you cram your tender hopes into a plain brown wrapper to an editor who is looking for a book about two albino dwarves who fall in love after washing ashore on the white sands of a deserted island. Fortune must be smiling on you, because your book just happens to be about two albino dwarves who fall in love after washing ashore on the black sands of a deserted island, and that’s close enough for an easy revision. But then fate throws you an elbow, because the editor simultaneously receives a ms of the white sand persuasion, and the rejection letter says, “…our decision is not a commentary on the merit of your work, but merely reflects our editorial needs.” Second opinion? You get it, and a third, and a thirtieth, and you never know the details, but the fickleness of the process and the powerless you feel drive you to believe in whim, chance, crass causality and…superstition! You take vacations called “depression,” and you give up writing (16 times and counting), and you try escapes, addictions, Zen, volunteering as the school crossing guard, and meaningful acts of politically correct purification like marching in the parking lot of Wal-Mart’s carrying a sign that reads SAVE THE GAY BABY WHALES FOR JESUS.
I figure I’ve learned how to lose in just about all the ways it can be done. I am an expert on failure, and I’ll put my credentials up against anyone’s in that field of expertise. Trying to get that leg up I mentioned can be seriously ugly. Sometimes I’ve felt like a 3-legged stallion hopping alongside a merry-go-round trying to make love to a plastic mare. And just when I thought I’d bottomed out in despair, frustration and indignity, guess what? The stallion broke another leg. That’s when you find out whether you’re into life for reality or just appearances. You really have to get over pride if you want to survive. You have to learn to laugh at what isn’t important. Like your fears. What’s the worst that can happen to you? You’re wrong, you fail, you’re rejected? 99 times out of 100 those things never happen, if you don’t let them happen between your ears. The quality of the moments and your outlook determines the success of the day. You can’t fail if you win the moments, and you do that with what you see in the world around you, how you think, and what you share in relationships. You have to find the courage to stay in the Land of Hope. Hope is a journey. Fear is a dead end. Happiness is being in motion, taking in as much of life as you can. Unhappiness is doing nothing when you could.
But sometimes being a writer makes you feel like you’re on permanent hold. I don’t like to even think about all the time and energy I dropped into that permanent mind-sink. I became very, very good at noticing and then ANTICIPATING all the negatives. Bad luck? I was the poster child. No point in trying. If good things had happened to me (and often they did), I was too busy suffering to enjoy them. My first novel sale came when I got tired of quitting writing and was really pissed off at the world and decided to give it what it wanted. I phoned up the local TV weather guy, asked which way the winds blew on Mars, and concocted a potboiler novel in 23 days by the name of DIAPASON. Of course, it sold right out the door and made the company’s best-seller list. Point proven.
But what was the point? DIAPASON (or DIAPERPIN, as my writer friend Loren Estleman called it) wasn’t me. I had proven I could be someone I wasn’t. I had proven that luck of either good or bad persuasion didn’t have to be a factor. I had proven that I could take responsibility for my own destiny without waiting to be informed by cues and omens. Chance or choice. Trusting externals to push you into a decision is surrendering control to the whims of circumstance. And sometimes the difference between perceived failure and success is the difference between luck and pluck. Of course, “pluck” is a 5-letter word. Consider it an upgrade.
My considerable imagination was good at building those gestalts of luck, so I decided to use exaggeration as a way to gain control. Superstition and luck are the gods of irony having their fun, I decided. And you know, it’s not a bad model for explaining the universe.
A funny thing happened on the way to mental health. I came to recognize the large swings of compensation in life. Even now, things I thought were past all possibility turn out to be more than viable. These include love and the saving of my son’s life. I do not know if this is some wonderful balancing of cosmic equilibrium and harmony by the gods of irony, but I do not doubt that similar life-shaping events are offered to all of us. It may be that they test our faith or the strength of our demons. They come at moments that are seldom convenient and are easily missed, and thereby we define our own destinies. “Luck,” ultimately is a spectator to choice. Such opportunities may not come by the laws of chance, but they may be a law. It may be The Great Divide in personalities and in how you live your life. I think of other mantras I’ve heard that are based on the endless song of the heart-mind duet: “A coward dies a thousand deaths,” “Scared money never wins.” Keep faith with the bottom line and the details will trend the way you want. It’s hope over fear. Fear grows in a vacuum; things like hope and love and courage grow in a garden where they can be nurtured. If you starve the positive side of your life, don’t be surprised to find that negatives take over like weeds. It is never easy to fulfill one’s potential, and if you think it is, you haven’t fulfilled yours yet.
I will never abrogate responsibility for my fate again. I will seize perfection if I see it. I am a free person and I’ve remained true to my truest ideals. Among those is to be the most optimum me I can be and to live my life in the garden rather than the vacuum. I regret every minute I’ve given to fears. Those were the fictions of my life. They are the cause of all my stress and missed happiness. Thankfully, they did not win in the things that mattered, two of which I’ve mentioned – love and the saving of my son’s life. I had intended to share a letter with you I wrote to my son after his near-drowning, but as usual I’m running long. So this is going to be two parts now. Here’s a little sample of something else I wrote about my lad, taken from my latest newsletter: “It’s miraculous how a love that is meant to be can find two hearts across time and space. My son and his were just united. Sean considers himself blind in his right eye, and Tess lost her right eye, so when he saw her on the Internet six months ago…well, I should explain that Tess is a rescued black lab pup up for adoption. Sean is on the road all day, so he didn’t think it would be possible to merge their lives, but when she showed up again (luck or destiny?), he was ready, and this time he’s going to take her home – take her with him everywhere, in fact…” More next month.
Thanks for reading. Your thoughts are welcome, your attention valued. My web site is below. If you’d like to see more of my writing, please check out the free sample chapter from my latest novel, THE WATER WOLF. And if you’d like to receive the monthly newsletter, ask to be added to the list at: mn333mn@earthlink.net
Thomas “Sully” Sullivan
www.thomassullivanauthor.com
23 Comments, Comment or Ping
Frank Wydra
Thanks for mentioning my story about two albino dwarves who fall in love after washing ashore on the black sands of a deserted island. So far I’ve received four-hundred-twelve rejection slips (three in personalized autopen, but, hey, it only takes one. Besides, I’ve heard that the guy who wrote that trashy white sand book hasn’t found a publisher yet, either.
Still, some say I’m an optimist just because of the time I got that huge Christmas present (is it politically correct to mention a religious holiday devoted to gift-getting on this blog?) of horseshit and rutted through the thing looking for a three legged stallion.
Insincerely,
Frank
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
What Christmas gift? So, I was a little late for your birthday. And I hope you’re not referring to that wonderful painting I gave you, or those classy pink lawn flamngoes that you relegated to the pond out in the back 40 of your swampland.
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
David Niall Wilson
Ha! Sometimes it is VERY good for one friend to post RIGHT AFTER the other so everyone understands that … well…they ain’t GONNA understand. I suspect that some of the story behind “Flamingo Frank” might be in the offing though…
In any case, I certainly can relate to this essay. And it’s funny because that godawful “The Secret” has at least one thing right…your life, your energy, your motivation - start with something inside you…if you expect to rise to the top, you must aspire to be cream. 2% will never do, and you want to avoid being skimmed…
In any case, it’s funny, because in a recent interview I was asked what I hate the most about the writing process, and what I went on about was the variations on the “waiting game” one must play…and how you have to find your own way through and around those times and continue in forward motion…
Great essay, as usual, Sully,
Lucky I found it early in my day..
DNW
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
Luck is your lady. But pluck is your description, Davey. Never known you to leave a chance unexplored or a road not taken. That’s the only kind of chance I connect with you. It’s why your life has been so interesting.
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
Davey — I should have finished out the backstory you mentioned about Flamingo Frank. It all comes down to gift-giving, and the fact that FF has not always been his gracious, amiable self in the mouth of the gift horse — know what I mean? I mean, take the school varsity jacket for the “Buffaloes” I gave him last Christmas. A little late in his life, maybe, but hey, “Buffaloes”? Could you do any better than that. Or the time I gave him a huge painting. Okay, his wife is one of America’s pre-eminent painters, but I was deeply hurt to see the gilded frame and torn canvas out in the trash a few days after Christmas. And then we have the flamingoes. What can I say? House warming. I admit I could’ve done better on the wrapping. But I was on the road, and newspaper was handy. Anyway, the pink flamingo theme has traveled a lot since then. Did he appreciate the giant pink flamingoes I encountered in Naussau whilst enroute to an out island of the Bahamas where we spent a week? I was trying to pay him back, and instead of gratitude, my life was imperiled all week long on this remote drag strip in the middle of the Bahamas. Damn, it was fun, I admit. And they were shooting “Pirates of the Caribbean” the next island over. I’m not sure what we were shooting on our island, but it was a hoot. Hell, I’ve lived on an I-land all my life. The real thing just brought that home to my lifestyle, know what I mean? I’m giving Flamingo Frank another chance just ’cause I like him…
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
David Niall Wilson
Such a sordid past.
Our own Beth Massie used to have an interesting deal going with her sister Barb…involving chickens. Maybe she’ll tell you about THAT (lol)…
DNW
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
Chickens? That would be whole new can of…er, worms (do chickens eat worms?). Loren Estleman’s department. Rubber chicken named Lucille. I don’t want to go there. Butt ugly.
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
Frank Wydra
So I invite this guy to our housewarming knowing he’s a big-time writer, and all, figuring he’d bring something spiffy to the new digs. Y’know, maybe a lawn tractor or shiny stainless bar-b-que or something like that, him hob-nobbing with the likes of Glen Fried. Does he do it? No. Instead, he shows with these two HOT PING, wire-legged, second-hand flamingoes he picked up at some garage sale down the street that he passed on his way to this very spiffy event. As an aside, everyone else who came wore shoes.
Me, I don’t mind the HOT PING flamingoes, but my wife, being an artist, and all, she is crazy about color and has decided that nothing but purple and lime will go in the back forty. But now I’ve got these two HOT PINK plastic things to deal with. Can’t very well throw them out with the guy still standing there, can I? So I plant them where nobody will notice them, say in a hole. But that Sully, he’s sharp. He spots this flamingo beak poking its way out of the pit and goes over and rescues them, sets them up in the middle of a flower bed (purple and lime flowers), and invites all the civilized guests over to take a look. My wife goes crazy, but being polite, says nothing until everyone is gone. Then all hell breaks loose—just because I invited bare-footed, name calling, what’s his name to our swanky affair.
So, you want to know what kind of guy Sully really is? Well, there it is. He’s the kind of guy who brings HOT PINK flamingoes to a purple and lime house warming.
Flamingo Hunter Frank
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
Sure, sure, you EXPECT people who live on their own 10-acre planet to be out of touch with what’s in. I mean, like “Bohemian” is IN everywhere else, right? No shoes. C’mon. What’s the big deal? Like we didn’t live on this deserted island for all the good skiing part of February? You think we wore combat boots or something? That’s Iraq, not the Bahamas. We had — oh, ’scuse me — shhhh, naked feet, that’s what we had. Naked to the souls. Soles. See, that’s a pun. Ha, ha. You probably thought it was accidental, but no it wasn’t. I thought of it first before I wrote it. Like deciding not to wear shoes. You think it was easy? All that gravel. Yeah, sure, you paved your quarter-mile long drive, but what about the soft shoulder? Weeds? Gravel. Ouch, ouch. And THEN I get to the door and find the friggin’ valet service. So, naturally, I pretend it’s nothing. If you had a decent fashion section in that local yellow journalistic rag they call a newspaper there in Detroit, they would’ve noted the presence of the august Sully coordinated with his pink flamingoes by NOT wearing shoes, as in Florida, Flamingoland, sand, shallows and bare feet. Much better than bear feet, which one of us is more inclined to, know what I mean? Okay, I apologize for the athlete’s foot. I’m workin’ on it. But I am an athlete.
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
Frank Wydra
I knew it, I knew it! Sooner or later you’d bring politics into it, what with the Iraq bashing. And what a cheap shot, using my comment about lack of shoes to promote your book, SECOND SOUL. Next thing you’ll morph that into some plug for BORN RURNING, DUST OF EDEN, or that thing they nominated for the Pulitzer, PHASES OF HARRY MOON. Well, don’t do it or I ship a mongoose to Minn-a-Soooo-Daaa to eat all your squirrels, which will deny you subject matter for your next blog.
Beware
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
Piffle.
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
Frank Wydra
Okay Lucky. Enough of this. Time to turn the blogoshpere back to the serious minded folks so they can comment on you serious minded blog. which, I gotta admin, ain’t half bad.
Frank
Jul 16th, 2007
Janet Berliner
Ed Bryant and I competed for years on who could
find the ugliest gift to send the other. He won
when he sent me a Valentine’s postcard
depicting a body sprawled on the desert, his
innards splayed around and his vitals being
picked at by a large (pink) vulture.
Okay, so the vulture wasn’t pink, but it made for a good follow-up.
Janet
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
Hmmm. The Valentine’s connection would be that the Desert Don Juan’s heart was also exposed?
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
Brian Hodge
Rockin’ column, as ever.
In that eternal vying between optimism and pessimism, and all the fears that come to naught, I’m reminded of the economist who, as the saying goes, predicted 14 of the last 5 recessions. And what do all those investors who panicked their way out of the market have to show for it? Generally, a whole lot less than those who steeled their nerves and stayed in.
Janet: I can’t wait to ask Ed what hideous things you managed to find for him. Just saw him this past weekend, and probably will next month, for his annual birthday gathering.
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
Now you’ve gone and made me superstitious again, Brian. I am absolutely 100 percent guaranteed to pick losers. Could collect a fortune of monthly stipends just by threatening to buy corporations’ stocks if they don’t pay me off, on account of I’m the kiss of death for their bottom line. Once made this fabulously clever buy based on thinking out of the box. The CEO had actually sailed a raft through an inland waterway to prove a lawsuit that would’ve made billions. Hung up in corrupt Florida courts. And the next buy was equally smart. Except I didn’t count on that CEO having a heart attack in the middle of the annual meeting, which he did.
I’m going out in the yard and catch me a rabbit’s foot…
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
Brian Hodge
>I am absolutely 100 percent guaranteed to pick losers. … I’m the kiss of death for their bottom line.<
Heyyyy, waitaminute…
Didn’t they make a cool Las Vegas movie about you, called The Cooler?
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
Vegas?…Superstition?…There you go again! Rabbit, Rabbit, anyone seen a rabbit?
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
Janet Berliner
Brian. Please wish him a happy birthday from me.
Thanks. Hope he received my ugly present. Have fun at the party. –Janet
Jul 16th, 2007
John B. Rosenman
Now I know why I’ve had such difficulties in what I laughably call my writing career . . . I keep writing novels about GAY albino dwarves who fall in love and get washed ashore on the CHARTREUSE sands of a deserted island. Editors keep telling me I’m not quite what they want.
Love the simile about the three-legged stallion and the plastic mare. The mare represents (1) success, (2) big sales, (3) reader acclaim, (4) critical acclaim. Am I right?
I like your effusions. Very philosophical, and I’m reminded of someone who said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Obviously your life has been a journey and you’ve learned quite a bit along the way. I’m very happy about your son.
Jul 16th, 2007
Sully
Thanks, John.
“Love the simile about the three-legged stallion and the plastic mare. The mare represents (1) success, (2) big sales, (3) reader acclaim, (4) critical acclaim. Am I right?”
I’m glad you asked that. Actually, when I was writing, it represented my own awkwardness and the impossibilities I aspire to. Plastic mare just seemed to make the challenge more impossible and me more ridiculous. After I saw it, I thought it was one of those adjectives in which everyone would see something different. Universal interps are great, but that one will get me in trouble. Well, when you live bigger than life, seeing poetry and metaphors everywhere, you rely on the good faith of whomever you share them with, I suppose. It’s a matter of pedestrian living vs. sparkle. I just hate flat conversation. Passion and romance should be mandated at least once every three hours.
Chartreuse sands. Oooh. I want to visit that island. I’ll bring my own company, though…
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 16th, 2007
Wayne Allen Sallee
Hey, Sully. You know Estleman? Way cool. Christ Almighty, such a long post. I think when the 28th rolls around, I’ll use the four letter word ARGH! (if the exclamation point can count). As everyone above have said, great words, as expected.
Jul 17th, 2007
Sully
Thanks, Wayne. Yo, on Loren. Was Best Man at his wedding — #2, as his brother was Best Man at the 1st. Second wedding took wonderfully. He is a happy guy now, and so is his bride Debi, going on something like 12 years hitched, I think.
ARGH! is good. Unless you give a half-letter credit for the exclamation point. Thanks for all the good words and write on…
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 17th, 2007
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