I consider myself blessed and fortunate. Not only do I get to do what I want to do - write - but I also get to meet and befriend people from across the spectrum that make up the rich tapestry that is humanity, and through this richness I come to answers and concerns that might otherwise elude me.
So I say to those responsible: Thank you.
Thank you, Tom.
I met Tom more than ten years ago, as a result of a workshop I was involved in.
Tom was the sort of person stories used to be written about. He graduated high school, decided he didn't want to go on to college or trade school, and got a job pushing a broom for a company that made custom doorframes and windows.
After about three months of breathing saw dust, being subjected to noise and fury, and watching people make the same mistakes over and over when it came to fulfilling orders he approached the owner of the company and asked he might write a procedure detailing how things ought to be done.
At first the owner of the company thought Tom was trying to be funny. When it became apparent to the owner of the company Tom was not trying to be funny he decided to let Tom take a chance on his request.
After a week of talking to the machine operators and the production workers who did the actual work Tom sat down and wrote what he had been told, reducing the process to just ten pages - single-sided, accompanied by pictures he took with an aged 35mm SLR camera.
Then he handed his effort over to the owner of the company.
I would like to say the owner of the company was impressed with Tom's work. I would like to report that the owner of the company was so taken by Tom's work he promptly promoted him to the exaulted position of Technical Writer, and paid him accordingly.
Instead he found a reason to fire Tom. The reason? He asserted Tom had lied about his formal education and related degrees, and the documentation he produced stood as evidence of this charge. No one could have produced the writing Tom produced unless they had advanced degrees in the appropriate disciplines.
Tom was not discouraged. Instead he took a copy of the documentation he had created and secured another job - as a writer of an in-house newsletter for a small company that produced cheese.
Once more it seemed success was certain for Tom. I wish I could report it was so.
It wasn't. The fellow who hired Tom to write the in-house newsletter initially was impressed by his soft-spoken demeanor, his strong work ethic, and the quality of writing he consistently produced.
But after a time the praise Tom garnered for his work wearied his boss and once more Tom was left to looking for gainful employment.
Because of his lack of higher education and related degrees, the best Tom could find for work was working construction as a framer. It was a job he quickly accepted and excelled at - Tom is just that sort of person, owing much to his strong work ethic and his determined nature.
After a short period of time Tom's boss took notice of his workmanship and encouraged him to do more.
Once more Tom found himself in a position where he could demonstrate his writing skills. Which he readily did. Much to the initial delight of his employer, who realized the potential in Tom. But once more Tom's talent proved his downfall - before long his co-workers and his employer became intimidated by Tom's talent, skills, and abilities. And once more Tom found himself looking for work.
His savior came in the form of a writing workshop his then-girlfriend told him about. Tom decided to attend and the rest -
Isn't quite history.
The writing workshop Tom attended was a workshop I was involved in. It was also a writing workshop that a screenwriter from Hollywood was attending.
When it came time for Tom to receive his punishment by way of criticism there was none - except for what the Hollywood screenwriter had to offer:
What the HELL are you doing here, he berated Tom. Why aren't you where you should be - in Los Angeles, writing your brains out? You could turn that town on its ear on your worst day! You have more than talent than almost anyone out there! Go now! I will pay your airfare if you agree to go.
So to Hollywood Tom went. He thought he had no reason to stay where he was.
At first Tom was met with high praise, and it seemed certain he would become The Next Big Thing in the land of shadows and light. But it was not so. Instead he was relegated to rewriting screenplays better left abandoned. Instead he was given scraps to make a living from.
For about a decade Tom made his living as a ghost writer in the land of shadows and light. It was a good living, but it was not for Tom.
This I know to be true and certain.
A few weeks before the end of the year a few years ago I was looking for a Christmas gift for a special person when I heard someone call my name. Given how common it is I ignored the sound and continue my pursuit.
My name was repeated and again I ignored it.
Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and came face-to-face with Tom. Life in Hollywood had not treated him well. He had gained a lot of weight. He did not look well-rested. And his eyes had a haunted, pained expression to them.
But he was still Tom. Soft-spoken. Gentle. With the spirit of an Artist true, and the soul of a poet unmatched.
After my surprise at seeing him had worn off we shook hands and began catching up on times gone by.
A decade of life in Hollywood had allowed him a comfortable living. To the point he had bought a house there and had several fancy cars. He attended Hollywood affairs on a regular basis and rubbed elbows with celebrities to the point it lost any luster or glamour it once had.
But one morning he woke up and realized something was wrong with his life.
Horribly wrong.
According to Tom, as he lay in bed, in the pre-dawn hours, he evaluated his life and realized he didn't know what it meant, what it was, or what it had - in the way of value, specifically.
So he put his house up for sale, sold everything that had no meaning or significance, and went home. Back to where he belonged.
He was living in a one-room apartment above a pizza parlor. But he had a great view of the Colorado Rockies and could enjoy beautiful sunsets by crawling out the only window in the place that opened, onto the roof, that allowed him access to the third-floor roof of the entire building.
I didn't know what to say in response to his sad tale, beyond having heard it before many times from many people, from others who had taken this same path and come away with the same result.
Instead I listened. I really listened because I sensed Tom was trying to tell me something.
In time he did. After he got a job doing construction, working twelve hours a day, six days a week, in all sorts of weather and conditions.
What Tom had to tell me is important. Very important. So important I decided to take a little extra time to write this piece.
What Tom told me goes to an important truth that, more often than not, seems to get lost nowadays.
But before I present that truth, that very important truth, I ask your indulgence.
When I was in high school I read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. I did so not of obligation to a given course of study or out of some sycophantic desire to please others, but because it was merely suggested I do so by an education/teacher (who knew they were not and are not one and the same? Not me. Not then, at least.).
I found the novel in question to be discouraging, owing to the excessive self-indulgence perpetuated by author Ayn Rand. The central character - Howard - was dishonest, immoral, and uninspiring, without redemption or potential of being perceived tragic. He gave no reason through his actions for one to aspire to his place in the world.
Simply, bluntly, I found this exercise in reading and intellectual pursuit through literature to be a pursuit in futility.
They were opinions that did not sit well with the educator who had suggested the novel - a self-styled politically leftist sort who considered his world view and this particular work to be 'progressive'.
I read Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead in college. I did so because I was required to do so for a course in World Literature. I did so because it was on the reading list for the course and because the professor - neither an educator or teacher - insisted I read it if I desired to pass the course in question.
Making the fact known I had previously read it did nothing to dissuade this mandate. In fact, when this fact was made known the mandate by this professor became more emphatic.
Howard, in my opinion, had not changed. The novel itself remained unappealing, and upon further consideration, proved appalling. Ayn Rand, in my learned opinion, was a busy-body who had taken it upon herself by way of the written word to dictact how others should live their lives.
These were opinions that did not sit well with the professor who decreed the reading of the novel.
The fact I got an 'A' for a grade in the course was just this side of a miracle. But it signified something else - my opinion counted for something, and I was ready and willing to fail the course to retain it. That was a fact not lost on my professor, who recognized an important characteristic within me. A characteristic I will return to shortly in this long-winded rant.
After I graduated college and set out on the path I was determined to follow I read Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. Rand, I concluded with this particular reading, was a sadist of the highest order, who took great pleasure in the pain she inflicted with her writing, which was undeniably perverse and obscene. She was, in my opinion, a monster. A vile and nasty person whose literary efforts did nothing to champion the cause of the humble scribe in terms of credibility and respectability.
But despite these harsh condemnations on my part I found the character of Howard now, well, appealing and attractive. Within his immature ego there was an example of the potential of humanity - he was willing to terminate his existence as he had made it to preserve and defend what he knew to be morally right and proper.
Incidentially, at the time, my life was chaotic and unsettled. So the fact I was able to find order and structure for it through The Fountainhead is an attention-getter.
Regardless, I cannot and will not recommend The Fountainhead - it lacks artistic value and merit and literature.
It is an opinion that has earned me, in some circles, the standing of leaper and outcast.
How dare I denounce Ayn Rand! How dare I dismiss her work as insignificant! How dare I!
Better to be exile than to be dishonest and untrue to myself and what I know to be honest and true, because when all is said and done all that remains is what was realized.
The measure and value of Art.
When my friend Tom went to Hollywood he did so owing much to a belief he had - he could define Art. Once he accomplished this he would be able to define his life and the success he had.
But therein was a problem that revealed a truth. A truth that is more important than ever: You cannot define Art. Therefore, you cannot determine value and merit, and, subsequently, success objectively.
Because you cannot do so objectively yours is a life unsettled and uncertain.
Which brings me, believe it or not, to the message this month.
I frequently receive notes and letters from people, wanting to pursue a life in Art, be it writing or photography or filmmaking or music or dance, who basically ask the same question: How will I know when I have succeeded? How do you know when you have succeeded?
I could point to the materialistic, the chattel and the likes Art - writing - has allowed me, but that doesn't go to answer this question.
I could wax poetic and expound philosophically until the individual who posed the question loses interest and goes away, but, again, that would not go to answer the question.
The truth, the fact is success with regards to Art - writing - is a purely subjective concern. The Unit of Measurement (UOM), the Metrics required to devine such things are arbitrary.
Which means, in plain and simple English, I can't answer the question.
But on a personal level I can define what success for me as a Writer is, by way of relative parameters. No UOM. No metrics.
Simply: The response and reaction I receive regarding my writing.
On a regular basis I received notes and e-mails from people regarding my writing. So of it is certainly high praise. Some of it is not. Some of it just plain weird. All of it is welcomed and embraced, because it goes to demonstrate something - success. As a Writer I have succeeded.
A few years ago, for example, I received a dunning letter from a man who threatened me with legal action. Given the serious nature of the charge I immediately respond to his letter, asking for a full and complete explanation.
He responded that I had engaged in fraud.
Again, the assertion was taken as serious and I responded for a complete and full explanation to substantiate his charge.
He charged that I had perpetuated fraud by way of the Little Stories series. He had read them and had become enamored with the town of Nowhere. So much so that he decided to use his vacation time to visit Nowhere, traveling by road from New Hampshire to Colorado.
But when he got to Colorado something happened.
He didn't know where Nowhere actually was.
Now you might agree with me that the responsibility of knowing what your destination is is yours and yours alone, but this guy added to his charge the fault was mine because the directions provided were insufficient and when he tried to look up Nowhere in the postal directory he failed to satisfy his intentions.
I couldn't resist - I wrote back that Nowhere was no longer listed in the postal directory because the post office had closed when someone had bought the only book of stamps remaining therein.
He responded apologetically, saying he was not aware of this, uh, fact.
I never heard from him again, but the fact he believed in the town of Nowhere and its occupants - that to me stands as proof I succeeded as a storyteller.
Success that cannot be measured by a Unit Of Measurement or Metrics applied accordingly. Success that comes from an individual and personal level.
Which brings me again to my friend Tom. After much consideration on the matter Tom decided writing is certainly a lonely pursuit. So lonely, in fact, that human contact, or lack thereof - that was how he measured success as a Writer. When the written word can reach across time and space and touch the life of another.
It was something he did not know while living in Hollywood, in a world of make-believe, made of shadows and light.
And it was what he needed most of all, to know he had succeeded as a Writer. So he came home.
Welcome home, Tom. Welcome home.
Tom's experiences and adventures have given me reason to review and consider and contemplate my life. After doing so at some length I now understand what success for a Writer means, and it goes to what another Writer once said - It is about our humanity, individually and collectivelly. It is about being human. That is what it means to be a Writer. That is how success should be defined for a Writer.