Life's Blocks - Take 'Em Apart and Put 'Em Back Together Again

I've gotten away from my music again. For someone who so loves and enjoys music I suppose you're surprised to find that happens to me, but it does. I get in moods when I just haven't the energy to hear the very thing which can help me through troubled times.

There was a time, way, way back, when a rejection I took hit me so hard I went nearly two months with no music. No cassettes in the player. No LPs on the stereo. (Told you it was way back.) And no radio. My devastation was nearly complete and I wondered if I would even survive. I did. Life has a way of going on. You know?

So I turned back to my online playlists, which contain songs I do not have at home. Was going to go with the biggest one, simply because it has the widest variety. Then I saw Across the Waters, which was my playlist for this blog at one time. It begins with "Only the Strong Survive", by Jerry Butler. I found it appropriate. And so I turn again to the balm for my heart and the salve for my wounds. Music is the way to open the dam and let the waters flow, releasing pressure and lowering high water level.

Only the Strong Surive: Jerry Butler

Pied Piper: Crispian St Peters

Stumblin In: Suzie Quatro

Year of the Cat: Al Stewart

Lord Grenville: Al Stewart

Question: Moody Blues

In Your Wildest Dreams: Moody Blues

I'm Just a Singer: Moody Blues

Story in Your Eyes: Moody Blues

For My Lady: Moody Blues

The Balance: Moody Blues

Behind Blue Eyes: The Who

Under My Wheels: Alice Cooper

Layla: Derek and the Dominos

Some Days the Dream Seems So Elusive

What am I learning? That I have a long way to go. Possibly further than I have to to travel. Likely, in fact.

I feel I am at a bit of a crossroad. Or is it a dead end? Another cul-de-sac. Kind of like this man my Daddy used to laugh about. How Daddy knew him I don't know, but they were friends. Compared to us this man (let's call him Rich, just for fun) was quite wealthy, which is why it was so odd he was friends with my Daddy. But he related something which Daddy never forgot, and often repeated for us, which is why I still remember it.

Rich was traveling on a train. Back in those days train travel was common. Not like today, where only the most major cities have stations for people. In those days even small towns and villages had stops, and so people traveled by train a lot more frequently.

Well, Rich was on this train and walking from one car to another. He chanced to pass by a compartment where three men were playing poker. Now Rich liked to gamble, so he paused and asked politely if he might join the game. The men all smiled, and one very politely explained that Rich probably couldn't afford to be in the game. Always ready to show how wealthy he was, Rich took out his wallet and slapped down five one hundred dollar bills. He was given a single white chip. Without a word Rich picked up his money and continued on his way.

I feel like that. A lot. In my own little world I can write. Not only that, but I can write well. I can compare myself against people who can't write at all and believe I am a master. And then I read someone else's work and I am humbled. Ashamed for even thinking to myself that I am good at what I do. The truth is, I am a rank amateur, and probably won't be anything more than that.

In the movie, Chariots of Fire, Sam Mussabini tells Harold Abrahams, "You can't put in what God left out."

When God creates us he gives us each abilities. However, even scripture acknowledges that these gifts are not doled out equally. Some get more of one thing, and others more of something else. But we all get something.

Unfortunately, some of us, maybe me, desire abilities we do not have. We can enhance what we have of them, but only so far. A lot of very athletic men and women will never play major league sports. A lot of very nice singers will never stand before large crowds. Many actors and actresses will never play Broadway. Not all piano players will play Carnegie Hall. (How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice. Practice. Practice.) And not every story will be told to the world.

Those who do not attain their high goals are not necessarily without talent in that area. Rich was far from poor. He just couldn't afford to play poker with those who were wealthier than himself.

I read what other people are writing and I am tempted to pick up my chip and go home in disgrace for believing I can write as well as they. I don't because, to be honest, I think the story I have to tell is greater than my ability to tell it. It needs to be told. But will it?

Days like today I very much think not.

So Where is Your Place to Write

It's kind of odd how one person likes to read one kind of fiction and another person likes to read something completely different. And a third doesn't read fiction at all.

What is it that formulates our passions - or lack thereof - toward reading? I have two brothers and four sisters, and none of them are especially interested in reading fantasy. As far as I know, Ranlen only read college science books, mostly about geology, but some about astronomy and nature in general. Mikey likes biography, social awareness, and detective stories. Lynahr liked romance and Christian. Judayl likes detective. Gayanne read most anything, particularly mysteries, but seldom fantasy. Helvie didn't read much at all.

So why did I become so different? We all grew up in the same house. Had the same parents. But our interests are different. Mine apparently most of all.

My best friend likes to read science fiction. I have never been especially keen on science fiction. For some reason I have a horrible time trying to visualize it.

Back in the early 1980s I was accepted at the School of Christian Writing in Wheaton, IL. While there I met Myrna Grant, a published author. She taught one of the classes I attended. During the class she said something I have always remembered. "Learn what your place is, and write about it."

She wasn't talking about where you keep your computer, or notebooks, or desk, or whatever. She was talking about where your imagination likes to go to write. Her place happened to be Soviet Russia. For some, it's New York City. Others, it's any city. Or maybe a small town. My place appears to be medieval. All of my stories seem to be there, even if they don't have to be. Apprentice and Quest could just as easily have taken place in 19th century America, or any place, really. But in my mind it is medieval. That's how I see it. I wonder why?

There's a summer/fall thing which goes on in Shakopee, MN, called The Renaissance Festival. I love going there. Spouse hates it. But it's one of those places where the employees dress up in period costumes and artisans sell craft items made in similar fashion to what was done hundreds of years ago. There are also troubador harps for sale there.

Sometimes, I wish it were a place where I could live in all the time. Of course, with my health issues, I would die in hardly any time at all. But - sometimes - I think it would be worth it. Just for a little while.

After all - it's my place.