To Know the End from the Beginning: Thoughts on a Reunion

I got to attend my wife’s high school reunion on Saturday. She was excited to see her friends, naturally. But so was I, because we went to the same high school and had many of the same friends.

It was a casual affair, with picnic tables laid with trays of watermelon and children climbing on a playground. The outside observer wouldn’t have guessed we hadn’t all been together in ten years.

But ten years had passed. And life had moved on for all of us. Families, school, careers--we were all in different places.

Yet after all these years, we were not merely still friends; in many cases, we’d grown even closer to each other.

Maybe it’s the storyteller in me, but I can’t help but sit back and appreciate how everything began.

As I talked with one friend on the playground, who had been with me on the high school literary magazine staff, it struck me how that school year never really ended. How could I have known back then that ten years later, so many classmates on that staff would be my writing group? They’ve become my tribe. They’re almost family; my children know and love them.

And then there was another friend, who sat and laughed with me as we remembered skipping class in that same park, and who, himself, is now a teacher.

And then, above them all, my wife.

Despite us having the same friends and two years in the school orchestra together, my wife and I were only aware--at least vaguely--of each other’s existence during high school. I never spoke to her until years later, when as adults we met each other in another orchestra and I said, “Valerie, right?”

Even then we never would have guessed we’d someday have four children and a house payment.

When I think about what I remember of my wife in high school--that quiet, blond-haired girl I never saw without a book--I want my teenage self so desperately to talk to her. To be her friend. To know she is the greatest thing that will ever happen to him.

If I could go back and live my high school years again, knowing she would be the most important person in my life, I would take more notice of the girl who I would someday have a life and family with.

At the very least, I’d say hi to her in the hall.

But maybe that would blow my chances with her. After all, I was kind of a weirdo in high school.

Kind of?

Still, looking back, my heart grows fonder.

And now that I have grown, when I think of how a person could take on such a major role in my life, I can’t help but appreciate everyone I meet a little more.

I don’t know where the years will take me. But I know they’ll take me there with people I know now--and people I have yet to meet.

It could be anyone.

The Liberating Power of Subjectivity

Recently the good folks at Iron Butterflies Project featured the story of my failed playwriting class. It's always fun to get featured somewhere, and I was grateful to get to share my story. But one of the best parts for me this time was the conversation with some of the colleagues who had been in that class with me.

These friends are some of the most talented writers I've worked with. But it reassured me to find out I wasn't the only one who had struggled in that class!

Since that conversation, I've been thinking a lot about the subjective nature of writing--and how liberating that truly is, in the end.

Image credit: Juliet Tang, Shift

Majoring in English is an adventure. There are no rules that can't be broken, no formulas that must be followed, no expectations that can't be turned upside down, no answers that can't be challenged.

You have a lot of freedom.

But it sure makes a perfect GPA difficult to achieve, because no matter what you write, it won't resonate with everyone.

For example, one of the colleagues I spoke with pointed out a monologue I had written in that same playwriting class . . . which ended up winning an award in our university's literary journal.

I didn't think that piece would go far. The teacher had required everyone to submit something to the journal, and my monologue--truly a rush job, compared to my other work--was just the first thing I had ready before the deadline.

But a few weeks later I got an email from the journal's managing editor, who said how much he loved my piece and how it would shine as the only work of drama his staff had chosen to publish. The following month, the staff invited me to read my piece at the journal's launch party--after the actor they wanted to hire to perform it fell through.

So, in front of colleagues and professors, I got into my character, an aging piano salesman forced into early retirement, and read my monologue.

The audience applauded when I finished. And on the way back to my seat, I carried a certificate that essentially said, "Yes, we like your work, so stop doubting and keep writing!"

But in my class? The monologue got a C.

Not everyone will see the same work the same way. As a writer, I've had to learn to be okay with that.

Look at the millions of Harry Potter fans around the world. Over twenty years since the first book was published, the series remains a cultural powerhouse.Yet there are people who don't like Harry Potter.

Now look at the negative reviews of Twilight. It's a story people on the Internet love to hate--or at least love to meme. Yet by 2010, the series had sold more than 100 million copies (note that this number has since had eight years to go up even further).

An example; I withhold my opinion.
Image credit: Know Your Meme

And it's not just books. I can't tell you how many movies I love that most people didn't (Solo, Final Fantasy: the Spirits Within, that Super Mario Bros. movie they made . . . ).

My point?

It's easy to get bogged down in perfectionism.

I naturally want everyone to enjoy the stories I create. And that idea crippled me when I thought it was possible.

But here's the thing: Not everyone is going to like what you create. And that's nothing against you.

It doesn't mean you're not talented.

It doesn't mean you haven't made something amazing.

Maybe my reader isn't into the genre. Maybe a certain plot point doesn't work for them. Maybe they don't identify with the main character.

Granted, it's my job to make my work as effective as possible for everyone who reads it. What are alpha and beta readers for if I don't act on their constructive feedback?

But embracing the idea that not everyone will love my work has given my writing new life. It empowers me to write more dangerously--faster, freer, and, dare I say, better.

Because no matter how small the audience . . . there will still be an audience.

I've learned to write to them.