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.
