Is life a series of moments in time strung together to form an hour, week, month, or year? What if we were able to travel back in time and correct a maximum of five past mistakes in a calendar year? Which mistake would you choose: (a) marrying your current spouse, (b) relocating to a new city, (c) a spontaneous shopping spree that splintered your relationship, (d) saying something hurtful to a loved one or friend, or (e) returning a call to a loved one in crisis?
Each moment we're blessed to be alive, is an opportunity for improving our lives, and the lives of those closest to us. However, a large percentage of the human population is consumed or overwhelmed with the minutia of daily living, and unable to see the larger picture.
There's beauty in life's daily moments that we oftentimes overlook. When was the last time you saw a newborn conversing with his guardian angel while sleeping in a crib, a smile the only evidence of the unseen and unheard?
When was the last time you helped an elderly lady cross the street, and lingered long enough to see her life experiences etched around her eyes and the corner of her mouth?
Can you recall the last time you took a mental health day from school or work and pampered yourself in a steaming hot bath with unhealthy snacks at your fingertips and jazz or classical music pouring forth from the stereo speakers? We all need moments to step off the merry-go-round of life to detox our system and recharge our batteries. It's for your own good, and everyone around will benefit from your reinvigorated spirit.
The next time you're rushing past your children, spouse, or straphangers during your morning commute, think about who and what you might be missing. Slow down and enjoy the small and large blessings in a given day.
Think about this way, the more time we spend alone to gather our faculties, the more quality moments in time we'd have, and thus we'd not have to step into the time machine unless it was crucial. I'm sure time travel, if it were possible and accessible to the common man, not just the world's rich or elite, would take its toll on the mind and body. Proceed with caution. You wouldn't want to return from a trip and realize you left your grandmother's signet ring on a nightstand in the past that you can't revisit because you weren't paying attention, distracted by a beautiful stranger sitting in the distance on a hillside, enjoying a moment in time, as ducks or geese glide by on placid lake.
My job as a moderator for three of the four Morningside Writers Workshops can be fraught with anxiety and walking on eggshells. Recently an older writer who had been auditing the Memoir Workshop, and wanted to transfer into the Fiction Workshop because he felt he'd be better suited to make believe rather than pen truthful, realistic creative nonfiction lashed out via e-mail because I explained to him why our workshops have been successful.
I present this only to show the hazards in dealing with volatile people within an intimate workshop setting. His name and expletives will not be included -- it would serve no purpose.
The exchange began with my submitting an essay draft that I wanted feedback on, and he fired back that, "It is unprofessional to submit first or rough drafts."
It was obvious in reading this that he wanted to impose his countless years as a newspaper journeyman onto a workshop that encourages experimentation and nurturing over harsh criticism and magazine or newspaper editorial deadlines.
My reply: Each writer chooses what to submit and when, and it’s our job to meet the writer where they are on the page and offer our constructive feedback.
We are submitting work that we want to develop and eventually publish. Each writer sets a personal and professional standard, and one of the goals of the fellow workshop members is to hold the writer to that standard. No one knows how many drafts have gone into a piece before a writer has submitted.
My stating my previous submission is a first draft is that I feel it’s a culmination of all the thoughts and revisions to a point that I was ready to have it read and commented upon. No one likes to be constantly taken out the woodshed or feel they need to be perfect. Morningside is a workshop where writers gather to share, experiment, laugh, enjoy each other’s company, and above all else, improve their writing through successive drafts. Everyone in the various workshops seeks publication and representation.
If you feel the methods and practice in place are not to your liking, I accept that, and would wish you every success in finding others who share your beliefs.
He apparently didn't like my reply: "Christ, are you ever a pompous asshole! Hold on to your little realm of petty power for dear life, pal. **** you."
I opted not to be cheeky or outraged with a follow-up response telling him that he shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain, and that I appreciate his showing his true colors and removing the wooden stick that seem to cause him discomfort.
A moderator's job is to lead the workshop, maintain order, motivate workshop members, and carve out time to write and submit. I'm not power hungry, and I don't strive to sit on an ornately decorated dictatorial throne. Writing groups aren't for everyone, and Morningside, as it turns out, wasn't right for this guy. I wish him well in his continued journeys.
My mother is a skilled, experienced pastry chef, and a few of my aunts are creative in various ways. Where do they get their ideas for pastries, home decorations, lesson plans, and how to appease a colicky baby that won't fall asleep at three o'clock in the morning?
I don't recall my mother using recipes, but I imagine she had to have read them along the way and added her unique spin to her signature peach cobbler, pineapple upside-down, and German chocolate cake. How did my aunt teach elementary school for over thirty-five years without burning out? Yet another aunt has a knack for decorating and rearranging furniture in small and large rooms in different configurations, replete with hanging plants and framed family photos that seemed to have required one of those crews from a reality home makeover show on The Style or Learning Channel. My maternal granny had dancing ability, and her husband cooked from scratch without recipes. Is creativity genetic? Are some of us more creative than others?
I've read and reread books on creativity and idea generation over the years, and still return to the premise that there are no original ideas. The delivery or execution of something tried and true is what makes it unique. Everyone's an expert and no one is an expert.
Will reading On Becoming A Novelist or The Art of Fiction by John Gardner generate ideas for writers? I purchased The Seven Basic Plots a few years ago for Morningside Writers Group, but found it cumbersome and tedious. Better than we workshop our fiction, screenplays, and creative nonfiction than rely on formulaic approches to writing.
Are there any original ideas left in the world? What makes a person, place, or thing unique? David Lynch offers his opinion on this topic in the following video:
I'm learning the ropes as a Publicist for artists, musicians, and other creative individuals. I've been reading websites, articles, and networking online with media professionals on Twitter.
An associate approached me several months ago because he wanted to crossover into the Anglo market, now that he's climbed the ranks and established himself in the Hispanic/Latino market. He's a journalist, first, and segued into being a publicist for others. He now feels that his position as a Hispanic multimedia producer warrants a publicist. Working as his publicist didn't happen, but fortunately I kept our meeting notes, and will implement his crash course with new clients I will represent in the coming weeks and months. Everything happens for a reason, and I know that his initial curiosity or faith in my writing ability, personality, and networking skills is a boost for my confidence.
In addition to what the experts list as necessary traits for a successful publicist, I bring a background as a performer to the table. I know what it's like to audition, attend callbacks, and to walk out on a stage even when you don't feel like it.
I wouldn't represent anyone I don't believe in or like personally. There's acting, and then there's acting. It wouldn't make for a good working relationship. I want to be carried away when listening to singers or bands I represent, I look forward to emotional performances by actors, and to be moved by painters or designers' works of art.
I know the journey ahead as a publicist might be tough, but I've the writing/editing talent, patience, and endurance to make this a successful feather in my hat. Feel free to point emerging and mid-career potential clients this way!
I remember a time when I thought I'd be a [famous] actor living with my Mexican Ph.D. wife in California, with our beautiful biracial children. She'd oversee the math and science homework, and I'd help with the English and language courses. She'd be my supportive backbone, and the soft place our family would land or escape to when the outside world encroached upon us.
Unfortunately, my schoolboy fantasy didn't come to fruition. I was urged to change high schools for my sophomore year, and never heard from or saw her again. Her life took a turn for the worst, and I began dealing with teen life on the other side of town in tony River Oaks. I had to discover, or rediscover who I was while settling into a new school, replete with international academic superstars that wept if they made a B in Advance Calculus in the tenth grade.
I was a performer, and no one could take that away from me. I might have excelled in Algebra II or Chemistry, but I felt at home on stage or announcing accomplishments during Black History Month to an audience that hadn't been aware or cared previously.
High school was an awkward time for me, as it was and still is for countless others. I didn't foresee myself as an ESL Tutor, Accent Reduction Coach, or Pre-GED Instructor in Manhattan. I just knew I'd fly off to Tinseltown and become an eventual success on TV and in the movies, as [few] African Americans before had done.
The band director at my first high school nicknamed me Web, short (pun intended) for Emanuel Lewis and Spud Webb. I knew I didn't want to be a clarinetist in what was a formidable high school marching band back then. I enjoyed the challenge of learning sheet music and choreography for the weekly halftime shows, but there was something missing. I didn't want to yearn to be the drum major. Perhaps on some level I didn't like the military/group mentality that's necessary for a marching band.
Awash in the madness of overachievers, bulimic classmates, privileged, or otherwise unfair advantaged peers, I sought to find my place. I had never attended a school with a swimming pool. I had never had teachers doctorates. I had never sat alongside students other than African American and a sprinkling of Mexicans prior to student body that ate lunch on the front lawn, few minutes walk from a [restricted membership] country club.
I'm once again wondering who I am and what it is I'm meant to do during my lifetime, and whether I should lock myself to any one course of study or job?
I have had [various] jobs, but have never set out to have career. A former acquaintance used to poke fun at me: "Tiger [his nickname for me, no reference to the golfer], now, where are you working this week?" It didn't bother me because, he, too, floated between jobs. We'd laugh about it, and move on to the next topic.
My granny was a free spirit, mother of twelve children, and surrogate mother to many others in her neighborhood. I'm not comparing her accomplishments to mine. I know I'm her [genetic] grandson. She danced atop tables in a jig joint as young adult before my grandfather yanked her down with a directive that she'd become his wife.
Where does the knowledge of this history place me in time now? I've worked as a credit collections agent, a rollerskating restaurant host, a software applications trainer, and on a computer helpdesk, all of which were utterly unsatisfying. I needed a job and thought I'd not lose myself while I auditioned for plays and movies. I miss performing on stage, dancing in commercials, and working on a film set. I've started to come full circle [finally].
In recent years, I've focused on writing and editing, and earn my keep as a copywriter. The task at hand is to bring as much as my selves into what I do. I've met and began the foundation for a script with two Tunisian brothers, and from this partnership we'll create a multi-lingual media production company that will pen original short and feature scripts, direct and produce music videos, and commercials.
Who am I now? I'm a Writer/Editor/Businessman. Whatever happened to Urkel? The actor certainly transformed himself from nerd to polished adult. We should all be so fortunate.
Why do people cheat? Do we cheat because we're bored, misunderstood, seek adventure, or miscommunication with a spouse or significant other?
If cheating is borne out of boredom, get a hobby, take a class, or work longer hours, read a book. I had a teacher who once chided a classmate after he'd said something was boring: "Boring indicates a small mind; the word is tedious!"
I don't think small-minded people are capable of cheating; it takes cunning, scheduling, and maneuvering to successfully cheat. Should you realize your partner is tedious, do something about it rather than flirting with a co-worker, creating a provocative dating profile, removing your wedding band, or cultivating online emotional relationships and affairs.
There are any number of hobbies you can participate in to avert wandering eye syndrome. Separate yourself from temptation. Deliver yourself from the woman with the undulating hips, the man with devil may care smile. Gardening, bowling, or golfing are soothing hobbies that could serve as the water to extinguish a spark or burning flame in the heart or seat of your pants.
The same goes for continuing adult education. Take a night or weekend class if you feel particularly vulnerable while your mate is otherwise occupied (see above note on boredom).
Enough can't be said on the powerful world of [good] books. I'm not advocating cowardice by encouraging you to read, but quite the opposite. It takes a strong person to resist temptation. If your love life lacks sizzle, read Anaïs Nin, Henry Miller, or other famous erotica authors and academic texts.
When the urge strikes, and it probably will a few times over a lifetime, think about how you'd feel if were the one who's been cheated on and refrain from any such thoughts. Jog a few miles around your nearest lake, pond, or reservoir, followed by a cold shower if all else fails. Hopefully you'd be too exhausted to think about anything else. Hopefully you won't encounter anyone on the running course.
In recent months I've been dreaming about my high school in Houston. In each dream, I'm running to a class in a building that's no longer the structure I knew. It's usually dark, and in one sequence, the stairs seem to multiply as I climb, pushing my way through the crowd.
I usually don't put stock in my dreams, as some people believe they can foretell the future, or store our secret inclinations, but I have to wonder why I keep returning to a place that I didn't like very much. The school wasn't bad, just some of my time spent there. It has taken many years later to understand that I felt out of place on the other side of town, not because of the tony neighborhood, but because I wasn't prepared for the racially mixed environment. My world prior to then was predominantly African American with a few Mexican students and five or six Caucasian teachers thrown in for good measure.
What does it mean, if anything, that I keep returning to my first integrated high school? Were there overlooked lessons that escaped me back then that I need to learn now?
I've had dreams that seem as if two or three jigsaw puzzles were tossed into the air and fell on my coffee table for me to decipher. Strangely enough, during tennis grand slams, I've been able to predict if Venus or Serena will make it through to the next round. I fall asleep with them on my mind, and some point during the early morning I open my eyes knowing full well what the online news and Tennis Channel soon confirms.
Is psychic ability real, or the province of snake oil salesmen? Do shows like Psychic Detectives and Medium give false hopes to people out their struggling with decisions, loss of loved ones, or their belief in past lives?
One of my more bizarre dreams involved my younger brother pulling me into his dream when were children to battle a bogeyman. I know it happened, and he knew that I was there. We shared a bedroom, if proximity had anything to do with my stepping inside his nocturnal world. We sat silently at the breakfast table, exchanging looks, sure that we'd committed some awful crime during the night that our momma would punish us for. When she saw us glancing down at our plates and across the table at each other, she called us on it: What did y'all do?
We didn't rat on each other with any such tomfoolery as being able to cross into each other's world during the previous night's slumber. I used to think that Pisceans were sensitive to such things, but Christian belief warns against people who use runes and divination.
What do you think about all this? Should we pay attention to and try to decipher our dreams?
Is life a series of moments in time strung together to form an hour, week, month, or year? What if we were able to travel back in time and correct a maximum of five past mistakes in a calendar year? Which mistake would you choose: (a) marrying your current spouse, (b) relocating to a new city, (c) a spontaneous shopping spree that splintered your relationship, (d) saying something hurtful to a loved one or friend, or (e) returning a call to a loved one in crisis?
