How to Find Success

NOVEL WORD COUNT: 124, 796

Day 30 of 42

I chatted quietly with a few of my friends as we waited for my English teacher to finish marking our assignment. Unlike past assignments however, I was eager to get this one back. I'd spent two hours the night before working on it, an unusually long period of time for a single assignment. At least for me. Although I'd been put in 'gifted' classes back in elementary school, those days were long behind me. The past year, as a Grade Eleven student, I'd brought home seven D's on my report card. As a high school student, I was more interested in making people laugh than my grades. I was determined to change that, determined to bring my grades up. Part of the inspiration was my teacher, Mr. L. Suffering from a painfully advanced arthritic condition, he moved through the school on special crutches. As a young man, Mr. L had been an excellent athlete, but arthritis had robbed him of his mobility. What it hadn't taken however, was his determination and the sheer force of will that helped him excel as a coach and a teacher. He was frighteningly organized and pointed in his criticisms, but he knew how to give praise when you earned it as well. Perhaps because he was so sparing with it, praise from Mr. L was like earning a medal.

"Steve."

He called me forward, beckoning with fingers permanently curled forward. This was it. I waited eagerly for his compliments on my work, but when I looked at my sheet, my jaw fell.

"C minus? But I spent two hours on this?"

He shook his head.

"You didn't read the assignment correctly. That's not what I was looking for."

I picked up my assignment, staring at the mark and red ink spilled on the page.

"I spent two hours on this." I said again, more quietly.

"It doesn't matter how long you work on something, Steve. What matters is that you get it right."

I didn't know it at the time, but Mr. L had given me my poignant lesson in success. For so much of my life I'd relied on charm and humour to get by. (I'm the youngest, what can I say) Despite the example from my parents, the concept of hard work eluded me. I couldn't fathom slaving away for hours at a job that I hated, and since most people worked at jobs they didn't like, I knew that one day I would eventually have to do the same thing. Just not today. And now that I'd finally put forth some effort, I'd assumed that I'd be rewarded, only to be shot down by the one person who I would never question. I internalized the lesson, but it'd be years before I really understood what Mr. L was teaching me.

***

Over the years I've bumped into a number of aspiring writers. Every writer, especially the successful ones, can tell you stories about people they meet who talk about writing a book, usually a memoir about their "very interesting life". It's usually pejorative, since they make it sound like writing a book is, you know, not THAT big a deal. And they may ask you for advice, but what they're really looking for is someone who will listen to them bloat about their story and acknowledge that if they could "just find the time", they could write as well as you do. They say this, blissfully unaware of the thousands of hours you've spent holed up in cafés and libraries scrawling away, perfecting your craft with little or no encouragement, alone and sipping cold coffee on Friday night while your friends plan their weekend, to which you've uninvited yourself because you "have to finish this chapter." Oh, and did I mention that as a writer you're also working a full time job, and if you're in a relationship, it probably only works because your significant other fully supports your writing. But you know, anyone can do it, Steve, you just have more time than I do. They're right. I do have more time. Of course, I don't have free time. And if I want free time, I have to give up something… whether it's working a full time job and being able to afford all the niceties of life… or working full time and finding time to read and write four to six hours a day. And here's the real catch; I am not a published novelist. Not yet, at least. Yes, I've published a few articles, and could publish more if that was the direction I wanted to go, but my heart is set on writing novels. And the prerequisite to attain the most basic level of skill in my craft has been thousands of hours of work. (So there you have it. Advice on success from an unpublished novelist. I'll be expecting a cheque when you make it.)

Ultimately, success requires commitment. It requires sacrifice and the ability to prioritize. Even as an unpublished novelist, I've heard so many excuses over the years from people who are unwilling to sacrifice, unwilling to put their video game down to work, that I'm afraid I've become a bit jaded. This is especially evident in systems where hard work is not rewarded. The public school system comes to mind. I worked with a number of young teachers pouring their heart and life into their students, only to watch the older teachers, who had apparently "paid their dues", leave early each day. In the screwed up hierarchy of our education system, the older teachers were usually making double what the younger teachers made, with much less investment, using the same lesson plan from ten years ago. Understand, this type of system can kill your success motor. We teach students that they should work hard, but show them that hard work isn't that important once you "get in." After working for the school board for six years, I was thoroughly jaded, and it's taken two years to erase those lessons. Two years of working as a trainer with no sick days and no vacation. If I don't work, I don't get paid. And more, since training is relatively expensive, my clients are all successful, and in watching them, watching how they work and why they're successful, I've learned more in the past two years than I did in all my years of schooling.

***

It's cloudy this morning, and a bit humid, with the promise of rain. A good day for writing. Two years ago I would have already headed home, seeing as how I'm working on about three and a half hours sleep again. I've been up for four hours, and it is not yet 9am. My last day off was about two weeks ago. And as a writer, there's no such thing as a full day off. Don't get me wrong, I love writing, but it's work. All that said, I've never been happier. (Or more exhausted) The past week I met an old classmate from my hometown, who told me that they had decided they were going to concentrate on their writing. He didn't want to work however, and couldn't understand why people couldn't simply see his brilliance. I empathized, because I'd felt much the same way when I was younger. My empathy was limited however. Through the years I've sold door to door, spent three years telemarketing, worked in so many different jobs that my students used to ask me what I HADN'T done, that I have little sympathy for aspiring artists who are unwilling to do menial labour as if it's beneath them. If you're not willing to work, if you're not willing to make the commitment to success, what makes you so special that you should have it? Other people are just as talented… why you?

I know what some of you are thinking. Steve, I've seen your bank account, what makes you think that you can talk about success? The answer to that is easy. Because I think that I'm a success. One of the first keys to success is understanding that only you can define what success means. That's true in our relationships, in our work and in our passions. Don't let others define it for you. Believe me, if I accepted the traditional North American measure for success, money and material goods, I'd be an abysmal failure. I choose to define my success by my progress towards my goals and the quality of my relationships. Which leads to my second point. If you don't know what you want, your life will be defined by other people. If you let other people define you, you will never know the contentment of true success. Set some goals. You've heard it a million times, but if you're not willing to spend a few nights over a sheet of paper thinking about what you really want, you forfeit the right to complain about your life. And finally, understand that what matters is that you get it right. Allow me to give you a Mr. L moment. I read different blogs in the publishing industry, and I'm always amazed at the laziness evident in the comments and questions. Spend the time to get it right. Read the writer guidelines carefully. Go to the library, or sit in Chapters and read the books on your field there. Want to be fit? Commit to it. Turn the TV off. Go to the gym or go for a run. Do you work in an environment like the school system? Set goals for yourself and ignore your colleagues who would rather complain than work with their students. Is your relationship miserable? Stop complaining and do something about it. Figure out what you want, define your success, and start moving. Don't worry about the bumps and ignore the countless people who will challenge you because your 'movement' upsets them. As soon as you start, you'll notice something very odd. You'll notice that your life no longer feels like a treadmill. You'll notice that you don't take crap from people as easily. You'll notice that people will start asking you for advice. Most importantly, you will feel alive again, because you will have control. Most of us don't realize it, but as we age we generally cede control of our lives to everything from TV shows to cynical work environments. Start taking control again. Stand up for yourself. And if some people in your life are toxic by their laziness or complaining, limit your time with them.

One of the benefits of training is watching people who have never been fit slowly acclimate to a lifestyle of exercise and healthy eating, watch how suddenly they feel invigorated again and how it carries to other areas of their life. That can be you. All you have to do is commit.

-Steve

The Audacity of Hope-lessness

He's there again. Curled inside the subway entrance, his emaciated body prone, his hand clutched tightly around a bottle. The other arm is tucked under his head as a pillow, his faded sweater draped over his still form like a flag. I pause, as I always do, and then walk past. It makes me feel, but I can't identify the emotion. Pity. Compassion. Anger. Indifference. Every time it's different, and it worries me that a sad sight would make me feel something other then sad. Must our response to the world always emanate from our own selfish projections? Must it always be about me?

It's been a long day and I try not to think about it as I head down the long flight of stairs to get to the train. It will be good to sit down. This past week I received a few emails, but none that touched me so deeply as one from a dear friend, who had read my blog and, in her own way, echoed the comments of others. "How am I to find hope, as you say, when my life seems only to return to the same troubles and heartaches, time after time?"

The train arrives and it is surprisingly empty. I take a seat near the back and ease into it. Two women drape themselves into the seats across from me, carrying their conversation onboard. Their voices are loud and angry, but when I close my eyes, I am able, for a time, to ignore them.

I'm thinking about my friend, and about the many who have written me, not just this past week, but the past few years, telling me their story and asking the same question, if phrased differently, about hope. How do we find hope in a world that returns, as it were, to the same rotten pool, year after year, century after century, civilization after civilization? Despite our accrued knowledge, the human condition has changed little. Moreover, if history teaches us anything, it is that while the world changes, people do not. We all want joy. We all search for love. And we all need hope. And yet, no matter how rich our country, no matter how high our education, too often hope remains an ideal. Very rarely does it enter into our life as anything approaching reality.



"That bitch needs to be shot."

I open my eyes, no longer able to block out the conversation from the two women, who are cursing and complaining about their day at work at so loud a volume I find my hand groping for the remote. The train is two stops from home, but the force of their negativity is so stifling I nearly ask them to be quiet and complain somewhere else. Not everyone wants to share your anger. We all have problems. I take a deep breath and swallow my frustration. I've had days like that, too.

Two seats over is a copy of the morning newspaper. On the cover is a picture of Sarah Palin, but it isn't another Lenscrafter advertisement. She photographs well (with one exception), and she is always smiling. But listening to her is difficult. The words from the "pit-bull with lipstick" seem quite in contrast with her smiling pictures. Not particularly eloquent, she is forceful and direct and, beneath the looks and smiles, seems every bit as vicious as the dog in her now infamous "joke."

In the middle of the paper is another article about Obama, about the man "selling" hope. No doubt "Obama-mania" is, as one writer expressed, a "runaway train", with the finances and smooth workings of a machine-like campaign. And Obama himself, who uses the word "hope" perhaps more than any politician in recent memory, at times feels as abstract as the theme of his campaign. But is he real? Does he really believe in hope? Or is he merely a projection of that which we all long for?


The train squeals to a stop, and the two women leave, still complaining, their voices carrying until the doors hiss to a close and washes the subway in blessed silence.

If hope were easy, it would never hold the thematic weight of a presidential campaign. If hope were something endemic to the nature of humanity, it would not capture our imagination to the extent that it does. And it certainly would not hold us in its wake as such an integral, if mysterious and hidden, principle for a better life. That said, as difficult as it seems to find hope in our lives, the audacity of hopelessness seems equally shocking to me.


The train stops for the final time, and I wearily climb the three flights of stairs to the surface. The sky has begun to fall, and the tall glass buildings outside the subway seem almost liquid in their reflections. I pause at the hot dog stand just outside the exit. They remind me of times when I was young, when my friends would come over during the summer months, when we would play basketball in the driveway and the carport would be filled with the sounds and smells of hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill. I'm still deciding if I should have one when a man in his mid-forties wearing a gray suit and red power tie steps in front of a woman in line and orders before she has a chance. The look she gives him could scald a small planet, but he blithely ignores her and takes his time fixing his food. The look on his face is as empty as his actions. I shake my head, my decision made, and head toward my car.

Unlike many, I do not believe hopelessness to be merely a reflection of our education or circumstances. Hopelessness is a reflection of our attitude. It is true that often it is hard to find our way, when unmet expectations and disappointments crowd our life. People lose hope (especially as they age) because, like the woman at the hot dog stand, they realize that things will never really change. That people will be selfish. That people will disappoint us. That life will never be truly easy. And that the distractions so easily available in our culture are probably worth more of our time than the relationships around us, the ones that too often break our hearts. Hopelessness, I think, is a direct result of our loss of faith in humanity. The Enlightenment taught us that humanity was progressing, that we were becoming more civilized. More just. More humane. But any casual glance at history, and at the world around us, reveals otherwise.

The church has done it too. Religion has often taught that to follow a particular viewpoint, a particular creed, is what we need to keep us safe and give us hope. If not now, then certainly in the afterlife. We hold fast to these creeds, cling to them as if our lives depend on them, because, in so many ways, they do. It is the way, seemingly the only way, we can justify the extremely un-relational tendencies in our lives. We pass the broken woman on the street corner, ignore the news about the poor, and then hand out tracts and pamphlets and argue with strangers to promote "God's love." And yet, in those small, still moments, we wonder why the darkness still follows us, don't we?

The day has turned to twilight, and the heavens burn a bright orange as the sun sinks low for another day. I hunch forward, pulling up my hood, eager to be home. I remember what it is like to be without hope. I remember because I still wrestle with it at times. What I've learned however, is that often my lack of hope is a result of my own unwillingness to spend my life for those around me. It seems a paradox, but I've learned that the only way to find hope, is to give it away.


My car is alone on the street. I'm the last one to go home tonight, it seems. About ten feet from my car, an elderly couple is crossing the street. They walk slowly, holding hands. At the sidewalk, the man gently helps his wife up onto the curb. She smiles at him, and her smile says more than words could convey. I watch them shuffle past me, their hands gripped tightly, their bodies leaning together, until they pass from view. My stomach clenches, and I can feel the emotions rising inside me. I shake my head, breathing deep, happy to have witnessed such a tender moment.

Hopelessness asks one simple question: "Why bother?" A person of hope has only one answer: "I exist to love the people around me. It is who I am. More importantly, it is why I am."

To my knowledge, serving others is the only way to stay off the inevitable treadmill of self-perpetuating disappointments in the endless search to "have more" and "get more." And accepting God's help is the only way I know to keep us on the right path.

The truth is that we will never find the life we seek through our successes. Not through our accomplishments or even the recognition we receive in the moments we are unselfish. Hope, real hope, the kind that breathes into your life and fills your soul, exists only when we accept what it means to be human. So long as our lives serve to echo the love that God offers to us, so long as we do all we can to give encouragement and love and yes, hope, to the people around us, we will know what it means to walk as we were meant to walk, and to live as we were meant to live.

My car starts easily, and for a moment, I am still. I breathe a prayer of thanks for my job and my life, for those who have made my life possible.

There is an audacity to hopelessness that most of us do not like to admit. Some days I prefer to dwell on what isn't. On what I've lost and on the failures and disappointments in my life. It's easier then working on this thing called hope, and this other thing called humanity. People may never change, but we can.

You have much to offer the ones around you. Over the years I have no doubt that you have faced discouragement, that people have cut you down and cut you off, that loved ones have abused your love and taken advantage of you. I understand it because I've been there too. We all have.

My prayer then, this week, is that you will realize how much God loves you. Not one we so often create, the one we remember from our childhood, with all the petty rules and harsh vindictiveness of humanity, but the Creator who is so much greater than we could ask or imagine. The One who loved us so much that for a time, He joined our race to help lead us toward home. Toward a life of hope. More than any religion, precious is this understanding, this understanding of a God who longs to extend his love to us, and to those in our lives who need it most. I believe it is in those moments, when we are able to ignore the pressing urge to serve ourselves, when we see in others what we so desperately long for in our own lives, and when we push through our own struggles to offer just a bit of light to those around us, that we will find our path, and hope will come home to stay.

-Steve