It's amazing how two people that have sprung from virtually the same gene pool can have such vastly different demeanors, abilities, and tenacity.
I'm speaking of my sons. The microcosm of their differences was on full display tonight as we partook in the age-old tribute to self-indulgence better known as Trick-or-Treating.
Once my wife had returned from the first go-round with the boys and their younger sister, we left the little ladies at home and me and the boys embarked on a candy grabbing experience that can only be described as purely frenetic. At about the half-way point, my second son (an endless fount of energy) was racing ahead, while his older brother began to lag behind. We completed the circuit, and returned to the house, where #2 emptied his sack into a plastic bad, and announced he was ready for more. #1 plopped on the ground and said, "I'm done."
Half an hour later, #2 had doubled his take - the happy recipient of many people who were anxious to dump excess candy now that the evening's festivities were almost over. He proudly proclaimed himself the victor in the candy arms race over his older brother. To which #1 said, "It's not a race. I wasn't playing."
What #1 doesn't understand is that it IS a race and everyone is playing. He's just playing a different game - and in his head, I'm sure he's winning.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Love Letter to Lebron
Dear Lebron James:
The 2011-2012 NBA season opens today with you playing the Boston Celtics. Again. This is exactly how last year started as well. Except instead of playing with Shaq, you’ll be playing against him; and instead of playing with Mo Williams, you’ll be playing with Dwayne Wade, and instead of playing in front of screaming fans, you’ll be playing in front of screaming fans.
Last year, my wife and I looked forward to every game. We gleefully replayed feats that can only be described as inhuman. We savored every win. Especially on Christmas day. It was like getting to open presents twice. We laughed at our son who would don his mother’s headband and proudly proclaim he was “being Lebron”. We went to as many games as we could, and we talked into the night about how the team and season was something ultimately special.
As the postseason of 2010 began, anything short of a championship appearance was simply not enough. The Bulls came and went – barely a speed bump. Charles Barkley inelegantly proclaimed the Cavs would beat the Celtics handily. Game one was everything we expected. Game two was a letdown. Game three proved to us that you were the unstoppable force that nothing could derail. Then... the unthinkable happened. Maybe it was the elbow. Maybe it was the pressure. Maybe it was frustration with the coach. Maybe it was just the Celtics. But for whatever reason, you quit.
Disappointment seemed an inadequate word.
We recovered as only people living in NE Ohio can. Quickly. We watched your documentary. We saw you develop from a young talented boy into a young talented man. We heard the words of your coach and friends and found frank truth and honesty. You lost the championship game your junior year because you and your team had bought the hype. Your coach stared at the camera and said he had lost track of what was important. That he worried about games instead of you and making a better team instead of helping you to become better men. We felt like we were looking through a window into your soul. You were committed. You were driven. But most of all, you were loyal. We knew you would never leave NE Ohio.
Then came your decision.
Disappointment seemed an inadequate word.
My wife actually cried. We didn’t hurl insults as others did. We didn’t agree with the owner of the Cavs. We didn’t and don’t hate you. But we learned something. We learned that no matter what face you put forward, we know you now. The boy that became a man is committed, driven and loyal – to himself.
Good luck on the upcoming season. We’ll certainly miss you in NE Ohio. Maybe you’ll finally fulfill your goal of winning an NBA championship this year. Although, I can’t really say your chances are any better than they’ve been the last two years, considering the Cavs won more games than any other team during that stretch. Maybe that was just because of you, and your former teammates are a bunch of no-names without yours glittering above them in the box scores.
Still, I can’t help but think of your legacy. The great ones all leave their marks – even if they never win a championship. The best to have ever played elevated everyone around them, defied all odds, overcame the obstacles, forged a path out of sheer will, and became known for their play in the biggest moments of the season. What will you be known for? Right now, all I can think of is about twelve minutes. And, ironically enough, you weren’t even holding a basketball.
The 2011-2012 NBA season opens today with you playing the Boston Celtics. Again. This is exactly how last year started as well. Except instead of playing with Shaq, you’ll be playing against him; and instead of playing with Mo Williams, you’ll be playing with Dwayne Wade, and instead of playing in front of screaming fans, you’ll be playing in front of screaming fans.
Last year, my wife and I looked forward to every game. We gleefully replayed feats that can only be described as inhuman. We savored every win. Especially on Christmas day. It was like getting to open presents twice. We laughed at our son who would don his mother’s headband and proudly proclaim he was “being Lebron”. We went to as many games as we could, and we talked into the night about how the team and season was something ultimately special.
As the postseason of 2010 began, anything short of a championship appearance was simply not enough. The Bulls came and went – barely a speed bump. Charles Barkley inelegantly proclaimed the Cavs would beat the Celtics handily. Game one was everything we expected. Game two was a letdown. Game three proved to us that you were the unstoppable force that nothing could derail. Then... the unthinkable happened. Maybe it was the elbow. Maybe it was the pressure. Maybe it was frustration with the coach. Maybe it was just the Celtics. But for whatever reason, you quit.
Disappointment seemed an inadequate word.
We recovered as only people living in NE Ohio can. Quickly. We watched your documentary. We saw you develop from a young talented boy into a young talented man. We heard the words of your coach and friends and found frank truth and honesty. You lost the championship game your junior year because you and your team had bought the hype. Your coach stared at the camera and said he had lost track of what was important. That he worried about games instead of you and making a better team instead of helping you to become better men. We felt like we were looking through a window into your soul. You were committed. You were driven. But most of all, you were loyal. We knew you would never leave NE Ohio.
Then came your decision.
Disappointment seemed an inadequate word.
My wife actually cried. We didn’t hurl insults as others did. We didn’t agree with the owner of the Cavs. We didn’t and don’t hate you. But we learned something. We learned that no matter what face you put forward, we know you now. The boy that became a man is committed, driven and loyal – to himself.
Good luck on the upcoming season. We’ll certainly miss you in NE Ohio. Maybe you’ll finally fulfill your goal of winning an NBA championship this year. Although, I can’t really say your chances are any better than they’ve been the last two years, considering the Cavs won more games than any other team during that stretch. Maybe that was just because of you, and your former teammates are a bunch of no-names without yours glittering above them in the box scores.
Still, I can’t help but think of your legacy. The great ones all leave their marks – even if they never win a championship. The best to have ever played elevated everyone around them, defied all odds, overcame the obstacles, forged a path out of sheer will, and became known for their play in the biggest moments of the season. What will you be known for? Right now, all I can think of is about twelve minutes. And, ironically enough, you weren’t even holding a basketball.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Alpha Readers #1
I am writing a novel.
It's so much fun to say that! My book is titled First Act of War and it is the first of hopefully many in a series. It is an epic fantasy novel and I've tried to do some things differently than many of the great fantasy writers that I've enjoyed recently. The novel is over 170k words long and I am currently through 4 rounds of revisions.
Earlier this month I sent the book out to alpha readers. These are the people that will read the book, and (I hope) give me critical feedback. My readers are a smattering of family, friends and acquaintences, all of whom are avid readers or writers, and not all read fantasy regularly.
The reviews and criticism are starting to trickle in. It's not the easiest thing to listen to someone dissect your story, or a character, or a particular part of your writing style, but it's very necessary if you want to improve as a writer.
Two major points so far are some inconsistencies in character motivation and a fairly significant plot hole at the end. Actually, it's less a hole and more a loose end that should have had a big pay-off. Regardless, they're both excellent thoughts provided by excellent readers. As more readers finish and tell me what they think, I'm sure my to-do list for revision 5 will be quite long. But my book will be much better for it.
It's so much fun to say that! My book is titled First Act of War and it is the first of hopefully many in a series. It is an epic fantasy novel and I've tried to do some things differently than many of the great fantasy writers that I've enjoyed recently. The novel is over 170k words long and I am currently through 4 rounds of revisions.
Earlier this month I sent the book out to alpha readers. These are the people that will read the book, and (I hope) give me critical feedback. My readers are a smattering of family, friends and acquaintences, all of whom are avid readers or writers, and not all read fantasy regularly.
The reviews and criticism are starting to trickle in. It's not the easiest thing to listen to someone dissect your story, or a character, or a particular part of your writing style, but it's very necessary if you want to improve as a writer.
Two major points so far are some inconsistencies in character motivation and a fairly significant plot hole at the end. Actually, it's less a hole and more a loose end that should have had a big pay-off. Regardless, they're both excellent thoughts provided by excellent readers. As more readers finish and tell me what they think, I'm sure my to-do list for revision 5 will be quite long. But my book will be much better for it.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Start
Why "Left Side of Nowhere?"
We love to give monikers to positions, places, ideals and events. It's how we communicate. It's how we identify ourselves as different or unique. And eventually we come to be known more by these monikers, than by our own names.
I am a husband, brother, son, father. Caucasian, straight, monogamous. Friend, sports-addict, gamer. Writer, reader, critic. Christian, moderate, liberally educated. Middleclass, suburb yuppie, commuter. Metal head, classical, hair-rocker. Western, sci-fi, comedy. Successful, manager, nine-to-five daily grinder. Pretentious, excellent, inadequate. Humbled by circumstances.
But that isn’t who I am.
I am an amalgamation of: preacher’s kid, youth group, contemporary worship. Split home, stepdad, stepmom. Salad, white meat, cereal and milk. English, accounting, history. Slacker, backslider, lazy. Driven, committed, motivated. Hater, moral, judger. Lover, open, accepting. Tree-climbing, kid-chasing, selfish, generous, broken, altruist.
I am a walking, breathing dichotomy of terms.
Culture happily lumps everyone into categories and types and yet I am utterly indefinable. And so is everyone else.
Where does that put us? Nowhere. We're all somewhere between nothing and everything, and if you know exactly where you stand, then you're either lying to yourself or you're just plain silly. You can’t truly know someone until you’ve stood in their clothes and seen through their eyes. The news can give you a hundredth of the story from only one perspective. Your friend never shares all the details, and no matter what face is put forward, it’s only a mask to hide something else.
Since we’re all nowhere, I figured it best to give a name to the place I’m standing. It’s entirely arbitrary and meaningless, and serves only to separate myself from the rest of you. If you wish to join me, you can share the moniker, until you decide you feel, look, smell, or act differently enough from me, that you should be on the “right side.”
Call yourself what you will. I’m left, because I’m hardly ever right.
We love to give monikers to positions, places, ideals and events. It's how we communicate. It's how we identify ourselves as different or unique. And eventually we come to be known more by these monikers, than by our own names.
I am a husband, brother, son, father. Caucasian, straight, monogamous. Friend, sports-addict, gamer. Writer, reader, critic. Christian, moderate, liberally educated. Middleclass, suburb yuppie, commuter. Metal head, classical, hair-rocker. Western, sci-fi, comedy. Successful, manager, nine-to-five daily grinder. Pretentious, excellent, inadequate. Humbled by circumstances.
But that isn’t who I am.
I am an amalgamation of: preacher’s kid, youth group, contemporary worship. Split home, stepdad, stepmom. Salad, white meat, cereal and milk. English, accounting, history. Slacker, backslider, lazy. Driven, committed, motivated. Hater, moral, judger. Lover, open, accepting. Tree-climbing, kid-chasing, selfish, generous, broken, altruist.
I am a walking, breathing dichotomy of terms.
Culture happily lumps everyone into categories and types and yet I am utterly indefinable. And so is everyone else.
Where does that put us? Nowhere. We're all somewhere between nothing and everything, and if you know exactly where you stand, then you're either lying to yourself or you're just plain silly. You can’t truly know someone until you’ve stood in their clothes and seen through their eyes. The news can give you a hundredth of the story from only one perspective. Your friend never shares all the details, and no matter what face is put forward, it’s only a mask to hide something else.
Since we’re all nowhere, I figured it best to give a name to the place I’m standing. It’s entirely arbitrary and meaningless, and serves only to separate myself from the rest of you. If you wish to join me, you can share the moniker, until you decide you feel, look, smell, or act differently enough from me, that you should be on the “right side.”
Call yourself what you will. I’m left, because I’m hardly ever right.
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