Things of Value

I dislike crowds and competition.

I dislike crowds because, whenever I’m in one, I imagine myself looking down from overhead and thinking, I wouldn’t want to be a part of that. Why? Because often the object of attention in a crowd—a show or a sale or an event—is usually not worth the effort, not in the larger scheme of things. Not for me, anyway.

I dislike competition for the same reason. Yes, I submit my work to agents, publishers and contests. But I sometimes wonder what it is I hope to gain? If my work is ‘accepted,’ I may get some money. I’ll garner some new fans of my work—and foes. I’ll receive the ‘satisfaction’ of having something I worked on, thought about, edited and revised being bestowed with some sort of approval from some editor or publisher. One person, or so. I might think, Somebody else gets it, that feeling of validation for my thoughts and words.

Beyond that, I just don’t know what all the fuss is about.

In most competitions—races, sports events, political campaigns, cookoffs, even courtroom trials—there are judges. Individuals who have been given the distinction of decision-maker; many are former ‘winners’ of such events. In sports, the decision-maker is often time. The team with the most points (goals, whatever) at the end of an agreed-upon time, is deemed the ‘winner,’ along with all that title brings. Either way, there is some entity that weighs all the information and chooses a victor.

The end.

My experience teaches me that there are greater things for which to strive than victory in a contest. In the last analysis, there will be me, alone, dead. Behind me will be my life. My obituary will list those things I valued enough to become affiliated with, perhaps my accomplishments, and those I will leave behind.

Between then and now, I have choices to make. For me, those choices involve not just how I raise my kids these last years of their childhoods or how I relate with and enjoy my mate, but those are important. For how I behave affects them. My choices also involve which words—like these on this page—I will deem sufficient, appropriate and beneficial enough to actually write. And for me, ‘beneficial enough’ doesn’t mean to you.

As I said, competition sometimes involves money. The great currency and all it can acquire defines value in American society. We all agree that it ‘can’t buy happiness,’ and that, on our death beds we won’t wish we had more. And yet, the lines at the lottery counter can be staggeringly long (in disregard for statistics, not to mention the publicized tragedies of many who’ve won). We elevate those with money—regardless of how it was obtained—to a plateau above us. Yes, we criticize the quarterback who threw three interceptions on Sunday, but still harbor a certain respect over his multi-million dollar salary for playing a kids game a few months each year. We celebrate Butch Cassidy and his Sundance Kid because they were good at what they did, and were well-paid as a result. We honor our dads and moms who worked six, even seven days a week to achieve a good life for us as kids; yet only some of us today actually believe in such a work ethic. We want money. The more the merrier. But the quality of our lives seldom improves when we get it.

I’ve got a birthday coming up and October tends to bring out the philosopher in me; but these are things I ponder all year long. In so doing, I engage myself in debate and constructive conversation that I realize has great value, to me. A human being, I’ve been gifted with reason and empathy and the ability to analyze events and people with a goal somewhat greater than mere survival, of myself or my species. Some of that analysis I write down.

Some ask why I write. I write for the same reason I read: I hunger for more information, and I don’t have a great memory. I write down my thoughts—whether they be about life or cutting hair or the ups and downs of characters who sprouted somewhere in my brain—because, to me, they have value and, to me, they are fleeting. And I write for my children, and theirs. I want them to know who their father and grandfather was. Writing isn’t a competition for me. Publishing? Contests? Yes, those are most definitely competitions, and, as I said, I do participate. But writing is like breathing for me. Sometimes it’s easy and sometimes it requires significant labor. But if I don’t do it, I will die, sooner than I’m appointed to.

I’m not unique. Lots of people call themselves writers and feel the compulsion. We are a crowd, sure; but we are all taking different routes to the destination. So, when I look down from overhead at this crowd of writers, we don’t look like a legion of lemmings running from life to a fantasy that takes us away from ourselves for the afternoon. I see only me, peacefully walking along an empty country road, glad to be on the journey and satisfied that the destination is just over the next rise.

Where it doesn’t matter if you’re first.