Possibilities
I think about all of the GOP candidates that were far more qualified for office. Candidates who were more educated and had greater achievements. Most had extensive backgrounds in politics, the military, and civil service. They knew full well the demands of the office of President and fought for it because they wanted a chance to make a difference. Their policies aside, any one of them would have been a better choice for the job than the one who was hired.
Which is better? Embittered quiet rage or going for broke?
The other day, I was out Christmas shopping with my mom. We were looking for a parking spot at Whole Foods and she told me look up front for any spots. For as long as I could remember, she had a knack for always finding a close parking space where ever we went. Sure enough, there was a spot two spaces from the front door.
“As always, old buffalo hide strikes again,” I said, using an affectionate nickname my dad had given her over the years.
She responded, “mother asked me one time why daddy and I always managed to find the close parking spots.”
“Why?”
“Because no one goes to look for any up close. People usually assume that they’re taken and park far away.”
That makes a good point.
There are people in this world who have a passion for writing and books. They grow up dreaming of being the next Great American Novelist. For decades, they hone their craft trying to find their niche. Their voices crying out to be heard. They write short story after short story. Their closets are filled with manuscripts of varying genres. Each has been submitted to multiple publications that have all given a resounding “No”. Now at the bar, on their fifth double shot of whiskey and smoking Pall Malls, they grow more bitter by each passing moment as their last shred of positivity wears away into the abyss.
Meanwhile, Stephenie Meyer (who has no background in writing) has a dream one night and is now worth millions.
It’s easier to grow angry with the unfairness of the world. Do I fold and give up? Or should I write my novel and apply for that job I am grossly underqualified for because, fuck it, we live in a world of endless possibilities?
Which is better? Embittered quiet rage or going for broke?
The other day, I was out Christmas shopping with my mom. We were looking for a parking spot at Whole Foods and she told me look up front for any spots. For as long as I could remember, she had a knack for always finding a close parking space where ever we went. Sure enough, there was a spot two spaces from the front door.
“As always, old buffalo hide strikes again,” I said, using an affectionate nickname my dad had given her over the years.
She responded, “mother asked me one time why daddy and I always managed to find the close parking spots.”
“Why?”
“Because no one goes to look for any up close. People usually assume that they’re taken and park far away.”
That makes a good point.
There are people in this world who have a passion for writing and books. They grow up dreaming of being the next Great American Novelist. For decades, they hone their craft trying to find their niche. Their voices crying out to be heard. They write short story after short story. Their closets are filled with manuscripts of varying genres. Each has been submitted to multiple publications that have all given a resounding “No”. Now at the bar, on their fifth double shot of whiskey and smoking Pall Malls, they grow more bitter by each passing moment as their last shred of positivity wears away into the abyss.
Meanwhile, Stephenie Meyer (who has no background in writing) has a dream one night and is now worth millions.
It’s easier to grow angry with the unfairness of the world. Do I fold and give up? Or should I write my novel and apply for that job I am grossly underqualified for because, fuck it, we live in a world of endless possibilities?
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