Lughnasa                                                     Lughnasa Moon

Fail. Failed. Failure. I set out, in 1992, to write novels and publish them. Though I worked hard, wrote six novels, and tried to learn the craft, I failed, or have so far failed to sell a single one. There is no way to paint this as something other than failing. I had a plan, a set of expectations and did not achieve them. In other words I spent 22 years striving toward something I did not accomplish.

I have been afraid to look back on the last 20 plus years and acknowledge this. Why? Well, who likes to fail? I find myself wanting to reframe them, put them in a different paradigm, redefine success, but to be honest with myself I have to say what is.

Were my expectations reasonable? Doesn’t matter. They were what I claimed as defining my work and they are a fair measure.

There. Having said that I can move on to the second and more important question, am I failed man because of this? No. And I can say that without reaching for the other matters, happening over the same time, that had positive results. Why? Because the measure of a man is different from the measure of a man’s accomplishments or lack of them.

It’s funny, but I feel no shame in writing this. No glory either. Just an it’s time to say this and move on feeling. Yes, all this has the root beliefs of middle class white male USA culture entwined about it on all sides. Yes, this need for notches on the public belt or on the office door reaches deep and wide, but I admit freely to being complicit with them.

That is, I’m proud of my achievements. I cannot be proud of my achievements and not acknowledge my failure. So consider this my admission of having come up short.

Now then. What’s different? Virtually nothing. The last 22 years passed and I have arrived at 67. The Dilbert cartoon this morning in the Tribune said it very well and reminded me of a conversation recently with friend Tom Crane.

Lughnasa                                                                 Lughnasa Moon

Sorting files. Lotsa stuff in files, stuck there in case of, well, something. Case in point. Year 2000 maps of Ontario, Michigan, Minnesota. One of the circle tours I took. They went out with the recycling on Tuesday. Another one with my favorite letter from a medical professional, ENT doc Tom Christansen. In it, after diagnosing my left ear deafness, he writes about my interesting inner ear bones, “They would make a good study, but I hope the opportunity for that doesn’t arise for some time.” Me, too.

The files that always get my attention, though I come to them rarely, but once in several years, are old psychological reports from my seminary days. Seminaries and religious denominations are big consumers of psychological testing and interpretation. Cue the recent Catholic scandals for one good reason.

In my case the materials tells a story mostly familiar to me by now. Likes to work on his own. Interested in academic pursuits. Creative. Skill in two primary areas: creating and influencing. I said mostly because that second skill area seems to slip below the surface of my awareness. Which is odd given what it describes.

Influencing, according to the Campbell Interest and Skill Survey, values “the opportunity to be a change agent, moving organizations forward. Influencing types crave visibility and desire to take charge of activities that interest them and make things happen. Enjoying the give and take of negotiating and debating, they are often drawn to vocations such as company presidents, corporate managers and attorneys.” Tangible results are important to him, and he is aware that lack of such results can increase his level of impatience, the interpretation of these results add specifically about me.

I’m belaboring this, which may be obvious to those who know me well, because it points to the specific struggle, the big one, which engages me these days. Tangible results. Writing. Lack of. Hmmm. Journey before destination. Can I retire from writing without having published anything? Except, of course, for millions of words here. To ask this question puts the influencing aspect of my personality into an impossible chicken-egg cycle, one I’ve not been able to break.

So, I’ve written. A lot. You know the story by now. Novels, short stories, etc. But since writers see publication, not writing, as the “tangible result” I have not, for all that, achieved tangible results. Which, at various points, does raise my level of impatience. With myself of course since I’m the only actor in this mini-drama.

Summer                                                                 Most Heat Moon

Virtually nobody asked me how I pick a topic for Ancientrails. So, I’ll answer anyhow. Once in a while I have a clear idea like Latin, Kate in Colorado, thanks to Tom and Roxann, but just as often I sit down and stare at the screen until something comes.

The question of how I pick topics came to me just now and it’s really not an easy one to answer. There are certainly diary type entries that say this happened, that happened and I thought this. There are also entries that I think of as conceptual bread crumbs, a sort of Hansel and Gretel trail laid down my in the now self for my future self to follow. These can be about anything, but often they’re about politics, philosophy, religion, art. Matters on which my position may change, probably is changing, or even matters on which I don’t know what I think.

Of course there are holiday and Great Wheel driven posts since the ways we mark time as special, as sacred continues to fascinate me.  Events might trigger a post about aging, the third phase, the move to Colorado, family. The changing face of the gardening year also prompts posts, just as the changing seasons do.

What’s the point? On the macro level these are all bread crumbs of a sort, perhaps for grandkids or children, perhaps for myself or those who know me, perhaps for archivists. At the particular level it’s hard to say. Wandering thoughts, sort of a mental graffiti thrown up on the digital wall. And the keyboard, having writ, moves on.