by Ray Jason
It
was a “chilling realization.” As my brain processed those two
words, I chuckled quietly. More accurately, it might be described as
a “frigid, terrifying realization.” That’s because I was in
the Far North – the High Arctic - on-board a fragile, fiberglass
sailing boat, trying to make it through the Northwest Passage. It
took 86 days from Newfoundland to Nome, but we did persevere and
prevail.
The
realization that had disturbed me was the possibility that I might
not make it back. One misstep and I would slide into a watery
grave. It was so cold that the Sea surrounding our boat was
frequently turning from liquid into slush on its way to becoming
solid ice.
The
question that I had asked was “What would happen to my essays if I
did not make it back?” The stark clarity and elemental reality of
the high latitudes, imposes a need for no-nonsense truth. And so, as
I stood my midnight watch while the rest of the crew slept below, I
answered honestly. “They would probably be dust in the wind.”
However,
as an adventurer with a poet’s soul, I was dissatisfied with that
response. Particularly, because it is a cliche, and I had vowed to
my long ago creative writing teacher, Matthew McSorley, that I would
do my best to never let them slither into my work. So I came up with
a more appropriate image.
Perhaps my efforts were similar to the sea that surrounded me.
The water would transform from liquid into solid, and then in the
springtime, it would return to its fluid dimension. Likewise, my
essays would emerge from the ether of latent creativity and take
solid form. But chances are that they will vanish along with me. So
my work is probably a fool’s voyage from nothing to something and
back to nothing.
Surely,
this was a dramatic and discouraging jolt of reality. To quell the
uneasiness, I decided to re-visit the motivation for creating my blog
in the first place. Because I began these essays so late in my
Middle Years, I was not undertaking this for the sake of gold or glory.
From
the outset, my purpose was to launch tiny word rafts out onto the
troubled waters of our seemingly lunatic modern world. My hope was
that these would provide some illumination and consolation to
strangers who I would never meet.
Among
my closest friends, I would refer to these creations as my “leave
behinds.” That was because, although I did not expect
gratification in this lifetime, I hoped that they might outlive me
and be of worth to readers in the future.
There
is a profound emancipation that comes from acknowledging that one has
no control over the days beyond or the unfolding of events. And,
personally, it could neither delight nor disappoint me, since I would
be thoroughly dead at that stage. So, I resolved to continue my five
year dedication to what I have termed RATAWI. This is my acronym for
Reading And Thinking And Writing Inspirationally.
It is tempting to dramatize this “realization” by claiming that
it arrived beneath the pulsating kaleidoscope of the Northern Lights,
but in the High Arctic summer there is no darkness in which to see
that sky show. (Later in the September stage of the voyage we would
see them.)
*******
But
now, two years after that trans-formative voyage, I find myself mired
in a less-than-admirable malaise. It is almost as if I am struggling
with writer’s influenza. Disappointments that should not bother my
“noble” self are troubling my “all-too-human” self.
That
English literature professor, who had so powerfully influenced me
back in college, had wisely counseled me to only write for two people
– yourself and an unknown reader fifty years from now. Most of the
time I am capable of doing this, but at times the need for positive
reinforcement gnaws away at my fortitude.
Then
I get bothered by the fact that so few readers send encouraging
emails. And I wonder why the essays don’t get shared by other
sites more frequently. Or why haven’t more podcasts invited me on
for an interview?
And
recently an even more troublesome nemesis has nibbled away at my
artistic courage. I find myself questioning my core ability. What
if I am not nearly as skilled as I think I am? What if I am only a
B-minus?
This
question has been troubling me for a while. Initially, I kept it to
myself because it is a difficult confession to share with others.
But, yesterday I realized that there are young people out there who
battle similar issues of artistic confidence. Some of them
are probably dedicated readers of mine, who believe that I never
struggle with self-doubts.
And so I have decided to reveal to them the approach that I will use to deal with this difficulty. What is the answer that I can pass along to them? It is this:
I
will strive to be the best and truest B-minus that I possibly can!