My wife and I welcomed our fourth baby into the world last week. Childbirth obviously isn't new to us. Yet I can't help but appreciate that moment more every time it happens.
I have watched a child take his first breaths. Been there as he opened his eyes. Shown him to his first meal.
I don't know what kind of person he'll turn out to be, but I'm his guide. I was there to greet him at the gate, and now I walk beside him on his path of life.
How can I not be filled with wonder?
And just look at his little face!
Holding a newborn changes you.
Here's this tiny person, brand new to the world, light as a feather and ready to grow. Everything is new to him. He has the kind of fresh start the rest of us wish we could have: no failings, no debts, no cares other than when he'll get to eat.
He knows nothing--and yet is a master teacher.
Little Ezra stayed awake for hours after he was born. I followed his eyes as I held him--the way he fixated on my face, the way I imagined him looking around the room.
Our hospital room overlooked a field with horses, a quiet neighborhood, and the highway I used to take to work. Behind it all stood Utah's Oquirrh Mountains, and as the sun lit those coppery hills on my baby's first afternoon, I held him facing the window and said, "Look at this new world of yours!"
We just need to not screw it up.
Image credit: Don LaVange on Flickr
Of course he couldn't see more than a few inches in front of him. But in that moment, when I presented the world to my newborn, I truly appreciated my little part of it. How many times had I driven down that road and taken no notice of the horses in the field? How many times had I missed the sun hitting those mountains?
When was the last time I really took in a room when I entered it?
When did I last notice cars on the road, trees in the yard, voices on the phone? When did I last notice my bed, my clothes, my kitchen sink?
When everything's new, everything's amazing. Since my baby was born, I've tried to see things through his eyes, and I've been so happy.
I've listened to music like it was my first time.
Stepped outside to get the mail and sniffed the autumn air like it was my first time.
Hugged my family like it was my first time.
Life is hard and the world can be cruel. I've got a list of challenges a mile long. But I've got even more to be thankful for.
Because life--boring, everyday, difficult life--is pretty dang fantastic when you really think about it.
Halfway through November 2014, I announced my decision to participate in NaNoWriMo.
If you're unfamiliar with the challenge, let me explain why this was insane: National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) participants aim to write a 50,000-word novel during the month of November. That's roughly two hundred pages, depending on the layout.
I set out to do it in two weeks.
Before you get your hopes up for a story of triumph against impossible odds, I'll say right now that I didn't finish. I actually burned out after a week or so--but only after I spat an impressive 24,271 words onto the page.
Well, more like vomited. Because it was ugly.
To accomplish this herculean writing feat, I sat down in thirty-minute sprints and simply typed the very first words that came to my mind the second they got there--even if they made absolutely zero sense. In some cases, no words came to mind and I just typed to keep my fingers moving. I didn't merely throw caution to the wind; I threw thought out, too.
I gave my story the appropriately-meta title Stream of Consciousness, and it decided it was about a man named Rook, who had worked as a fire juggler at a retirement home before the story's inciting nuclear incident, and a cockroach with survivor's guilt named Carlisle.
Guys, it was bad. Here's just one paragraph:
Did monkey brothels exist? Rook had heard of them. There were some across the desert, he thought. He’d seen them in books: monkeys serving broth to their brothers while they competed to write lists of words that began with “broth.” He couldn’t imagine a more taxing game on his imagination. Anyone with that kind of creative genius might have been able to save the city, if they’d been patriotic enough to come out of the monkey brothel and pour broth over the fancy computers and make everyone do things their own way.
I just Googled "monkey brothels" to find out if they really do exist. Don't do it.
Image credit: TexansTalk.com
Some might say I was on something. I say I was trusting my creative instinct, the same way Luke Skywalker turned off his targeting computer and used the Force to blow up the Death Star.
Granted, no would one have ever published my little foray into the Force.
Here's the thing, though:
In those pages and pages of utter garbage, I discovered a world I wanted to explore.
And to this day, Rook and Carlisle remain among my favorite characters. I never saw them coming--in a very real way they broke themselves out of my crazy mass of gray matter--but when I think of that unlikely duo, I can't help but beam with pride. Eventually, I want to go back and team up with a fantastic illustrator (Doug TenNapel, if he's not too busy. Call me, Doug!) to give Rook and Carlisle the graphic novel they deserve.
That writing maxim, "You can't edit a blank page," always brings these characters, this world, to my mind. Their story gave me a ton to edit. Nothing will be safe from my delete button. But there never would have been a story in the first place if I hadn't gotten the words out. No Rook. No Carlisle. No monkey brothels.
If I'd let my fear get in the way, none of that magic would have ever happened.
People are basically cats, when you think about it.
Have you ever remembered an experience you had and thought, That feels like a lifetime ago?
That's probably because it was.
Looking back on my life so far, I can identify at least five solid stages that were so different from one another it was like I'd started a new life:
Nineteen years of living at home, which despite its many changes roughly stayed consistent and which I call my childhood; two years as a missionary; two-ish years of bachelorhood; one year as a newlywed; and four-and-a-half years, and counting, as a dad.
But although it's been said a leopard can't change its spots, people are different. People can change. And with each of these cat-like lives I've lived, I've learned and experienced things that have changed me at the very foundation.
I've been thinking a lot how ten years ago this morning, I woke up in a dorm room shared with three other nineteen-year-old guys. I showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth in a communal bathroom, stood in line for breakfast in a crowded cafeteria, and reported to my lessons in the Spanish language and how to preach the restored Gospel of Jesus Christ.
My first morning in the Missionary Training Center of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
It was like Hogwarts, I thought back then. We had our "houses" (zones and districts), ate in the expansive "great hall" (the cafeteria), and learned how to use incredible powers. Naturally I equated our Gospel instruction with Defense Against the Dark Arts.
I also thought I was pretty great.
I spent nine weeks there, then flew out to San Antonio, Texas, where for the bulk of two years I served, learned, loved, and grew.
I don't have enough space in a blog post to describe what my life as a missionary was like or what it has meant to me. But that time certainly changed me.
I relied on God through the whole thing. I gained the confidence to talk to strangers--and to initiate conversations about deep, important things, beyond empty small talk. I bought my own groceries, maintained my own apartment, learned to live without my parents always there to help me.
I even fell in love with spicy food.
As my mission president used to say, it may or may not have been the best two years of my life. But it was certainly the best two years for my life.
It feels like a lifetime ago. But if you were paying attention earlier in this post, you'd know it was actually three lifetimes ago.
As much as my mission changed me, I've changed with each life since.
In some ways I've improved. In others, I feel like I've lost something.
I think that happens to all of us as we go through life (or lives). As we learn some things, we forget others. New habits replace old ones. And sometimes it's good, sometimes it's not.
None of us can go back to where we were before. Nor should obsess with doing so. But what a loss if we don't take the best traits and lessons of past lifetimes with us!
In my current life, I need the creativity of my childhood, the boldness of my bachelorhood, and the attentiveness I showed as a newlywed. I need the spiritual strength I had as a missionary. And I'm not there yet, in any category.
But as I recall the lives I've lived, I can rediscover the dusty treasures I find and polish them again.
Adulting is hard. There are bills to pay, things to clean, hours to keep, and sometimes Google doesn’t have all the answers (blasphemy, I know).
On top of it all, I’m the dad now. Which means even smaller, less experienced humans look to me for guidance, security, and . . . competence.
On the days--and there are many--when I want to rend my clothes and shout to the heavens, “I don’t know what I’m doing! No one knows what they’re doing!”, it helps to remember how far I’ve come.
Because I used to be a teenage boy. And teenage boys, despite their many good points, have a unique capacity for cluelessness.
Recently I remembered an experience I had when I was fifteen or sixteen, and my young men’s president (the Latter-day Saint near-equivalent of a youth pastor) sent his son and me for ingredients we would use in a dessert.
With shopping list in hand, my friend and I approached the grocery store with the kind of confidence only teenage boys could have who are about to make gigantic fools of themselves.
Among the few items we needed were yellow cake mix, cream cheese, and evaporated milk. The task was simple--and we were never trusted with such a duty again.
First the yellow cake mix.
You have to give us credit for even finding the baking aisle. We grabbed the first yellow-colored cake mix we saw.
And my friend’s dad just about died when we returned with lemon.
This is not a yellow cake mix. Mind = blown.
Image credit: Duncan Hines
The cream cheese was easier. We knew where to find the refrigerator it was kept in, and we felt confident in our hunt for an item we were already familiar with.
The only problem was that my friend’s dad never specified what flavor we needed. So we put our heads together, and proudly returned with something we thought everyone would like.
My friend’s dad just about killed us when he pulled tubs of strawberry and blueberry cream cheese out of our bag.
It comes in blocks. And plain. Who knew?
Image credit: Amazon
Now for our greatest challenge: the evaporated milk.
Somehow we ended up in the international isle. The cans we found were small and said "Made in Guatemala," but leche was Spanish for milk, so we felt okay about buying them.
My friend’s dad was speechless when we presented him with our cans of dulce de leche.
But we used everything in the dessert: lemon cake mix, strawberry and blueberry cream cheese, dulce de leche, and whatever other abomination our teenage boy minds had conceived.
It wasn’t bad.
Now that I’m married and have a few years of shared kitchen duties under my belt, I’ve become not only a decent cook, but a fairly accomplished grocery shopper. In fact, I’m proud to say my wife has even called me from the store on occasion to ask where to find things.
And I never mixed up yellow cake mix and lemon cake mix again.
In so many areas, I still feel as clueless as those teenage boys in the grocery store. But when my life and responsibilities start to overwhelm me, I remind myself how far I’ve come--and what direction I’m going.
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.
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.
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 . . . ).
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.
Sure, their prices weren't great, and they couldn't compete in a growing online marketplace against behemoths like Walmart and Amazon. And, as my dad used to describe it, the store always smelled like "baby vomit."
But I couldn't help but get a little sad at the news that another piece of my childhood is disappearing.
Toys "R" Us was a pretty big part of my growing-up years. I'll never forget riding a brand new bike out of the store on my seventh birthday, or going there with my older brother for my thirteenth birthday to pick out a Lego set (his treat). I played game demos there during the era of Nintendo 64 and the first Playstation. And who didn't feel like Christmas had come a little early when that big holiday catalog arrived in the mail?
It helped me develop decent phone skills, too, as I often called my local stores to see if certain items were in stock. (These were the days before online shopping, of course.)
And, even as an adult, I continued making memories there, from raiding collectible Lego minifigures with a friend, to finding Christmas gifts for my own children--the next generation, I assumed, of Toys "R" Us kids.
But not all things last forever.
A while ago I drove past the Toys "R" Us I went to as a kid. It was already demolished--a visual reminder that we've all grown up.
I'll be fine without it. Stores like Walmart already earned the lion's share of my business long ago.
But I couldn't let Toys "R" Us die without paying my little tribute to the store that gave me so much. I'm glad it existed. I can hardly believe it's gone.
If you've ever watched a movie or played a video game, you've heard musical themes attached to certain characters and places. For example, Star Wars gave us "Leia's Theme." And in The Lord of the Rings, anytime this progression of descending thirds played, we knew something sinister was happening.
I like to assign similar themes to characters and settings in my writing, because I love the way music can ground an image in emotion. If I can convey that same feeling with my words, I know I'm on the right track.
So I create my playlist early and check in with it often throughout a draft--like to make sure my protagonist, Roy, is still that kind, noble, mostly harmless guy with a dark secret just below the surface (as I interpret the main theme from Final Fantasy VII), or that Em's motivation remains driven by a deep sense of longing for something beautiful and out of reach ("Suteki Da Ne," from Final Fantasy X).
(And lest you think I only draw my themes from the Final Fantasy pot, my aging gambler, Lars, who gives characters a taste of the novel world's "old ways" in his vacation resort, got "Fi's Theme" from The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, while the pianist in his employ, Philo, got Michael Nyman's "The Sacrifice" for his own journey nursing old wounds.*)
*You can hear seventeen-year-old me playing it a half-step lower here. In a lot of ways, Philo is basically me.
Aside from sparking ideas for entire novels and getting me into a creative mood, I've found that using musical themes in my writing keeps me emotionally in tune with my work and helps me stay true to the stories I want to tell. Music is my favorite writing tool.
Do any of you writers make a playlist for your stories? What other tools do you use? I'd love to hear about them in the comments!
My new webcomic, Peculiar People, has had a great response so far. Thanks to all of you who have liked it! I'm excited about this new project and look forward to seeing what it becomes.
But it's only the tip of an iceberg--which both invigorates and frustrates me.
I'm trying so hard not to fall to Shiny New Idea Syndrome. Over the years I've learned to harness it as a motivator rather than a detractor: when a great new idea comes, I usually push myself a little harder to finish whatever project is in its way, rather than fill my figurative shelf with half-finished novels and Lego builds. And where I can, I multitask--hence my now two webcomics and weekly scripture illustrations (also, I'm insane. There's that, too.).
Still, I have too many corpses of abandoned projects haunting me. And this time of year, when the weather starts warming and the days grow brighter, I tend to get a flood of inspiration and am the most susceptible to Shiny New Idea Syndrome.
But it helps to talk.
So, here is a non-specific and noncomprehensive list of things I want to do. You, as a reader, get a little peek at what's to come, and I get to let off some of this creative steam by talking about some of the ideas I really, really want to get to but can't work on quite yet. It's win-win!
What can you expect in the future? Here are some of the things I've got up my sleeve:
--Another Lego comic, but one that follows an actual story and will be more serious than my other comics. After I've produced enough installments, I may want to publish it as a graphic novel, too. I tried my hand at something like this in high school, but I only got four chapters in and the references are stuck in 2004, so I'm going to make something new and (hopefully) more timeless. The main obstacle to starting this project is the need to sort my Lego collection and establish a more permanent work space.
A shot from my first Lego story, Jellybean
--A series of Lego explainerson subjects I know a lot about, like LDS beliefs, chess, and buying contact lenses. This probably won't be a regular thing--just something I make new installments for whenever I find the time. But I think readers would find the Lego format eye-pleasing and accessible.
--A Lego graphic novelization of my own current book project.The novel I'm writing right now was actually inspired by Lego in the first place, so I feel like this would be a fitting return to roots. I'll most likely wait on this project until the book is published, though--or at least finished. That gives me more motivation to push through the drafts!
--Books. Lots and lots of books.Online, I've been focusing on the Lego stuff so long I wouldn't be surprised if most of my followers didn't realize I'm actually writing a book. I just don't talk about it a whole lot right now because I can actually publish a comic every week and readers are more interested in that than in characters and a world they haven't gotten to know yet. I'll be more open about my novel as it gets closer to completion and publication, though. In the meantime, I'm trying to push myself to finish as quickly as I can. My goal is the end of this year . . .
. . . Which is good, because I have a whole career's worth of other novel ideas stashed in a notebook, which include elements like a Jonah-esque sea monster encounter, a talk show in the underworld, and bionic children locked in competition. That's all in addition to the sequel, two prequels, and "Choose Your Own Adventure"-style spinoff I have planned for my current novel. Yikes!
--All the writings. But wait, there's more! I've got a bunch of smaller writing projects planned, too, from essay collections about the things that made me who I am, to short stories starring characters like a courageous pizza boy and a freelance writer with a dark past and a shady clientele. I'll probably do one of these between each novel draft, or something, as a way to refresh myself. Maybe I'll even throw a fan fiction into the mix (filed under "just for fun," of course).
Okay, that's enough for today. I definitely, frustratingly, won't get to the bottom of my idea list before more ideas barge in, but that's also part of the fun. I'll always have something to create.
I'm working on establishing an effective balance between my creative projects, my full-time job, my family, my health, and other responsibilities and interests, and that's the main hurdle in my path right now. But I'm making progress, and in the meantime, it helps to talk about these ideas, at least. Thanks for indulging me today, and thanks for all your continued support. I can't wait to show you my finished work!
I changed my college major so many times I refer to my associate's as my "six-year degree." I tried my hand at accounting, communications, journalism, business, and even Arabic. Which served me well when I finally settled on English; a writer should know something about everything. So that worked out.
Before English, the major I lasted the longest in was music. I couldn't decide whether I wanted to teach high school or practice music therapy, but I felt happy and at home on stage, so I eventually narrowed my focus down to piano performance.
I loved it at first: playing free in my school's piano lab before work each morning; supporting colleagues at their performances; digging into music theory to find its beating heart. Of course, the concerts were my favorite part.
But something eventually scared me away.
Before college, one could describe my relationship with the piano as an addiction. I started lessons at the age of five, and the more I grew, the more I needed my musical fix. By high school, I found myself drawn compulsively to the keyboard several times each day, often interrupting other activities already underway (like my homework). I sought out pianos on family vacations. When I left home to serve as a missionary, I took a backpack full of approved sheet music and spent hours on my weekly day off pouring my soul into a church piano.
(And while not traditionally mission-appropriate, I even taught myself a little Trans-Siberian Orchestra and performed it at a mission Christmas conference.)
I have fallen asleep at the piano keys and woken up again . . . still playing.
I have let the music carry me off into visions that became stories I would someday write.
I have played until I've bled, only to stop because the keys got slippery and I had to clean up the mess.
Everyone thought majoring in music would be a perfect fit for me. And for a while, it was.
But over time, I noticed my addiction waning. Practicing became a chore. New pieces, once exciting, made me irritable. And after concerts, I wouldn't touch the piano for days.
I don't want to say it's because the piano became a job, because my whole intent in choosing what I studied was to do what I loved.
But something changed. I felt more pressure to be great. I pushed myself harder to play more perfectly, more precisely, more more. I got tired. Somehow, the piano stopped being fun. And I wasn't getting better at it; somehow, I was getting worse.
You run that risk turning anything you love into a career. So I've tried to be careful not to let the same thing happen to my writing.
There's a fine balance between learning the craft and just enjoying it. With the abundance of books and articles on topics ranging from sentence structure to social media marketing, it's so easy to throw that balance off and get lost in a world of toxic perfectionism.
I think we all want to improve at the things we enjoy doing. I love anything that makes me a better writer. That's why I recently picked up a book on storytelling that promised to use brain science to help me write a more riveting novel.
It started off well. I liked the author's ideas and did the exercises. I picked up on things that truly will improve my writing in the long run.
But the deeper I got into the book, the more that dangerous perfectionism paralyzed me. Even after I talked myself out of starting over on my novel--the one I have already spent seventeen years on, which is why I was interested in this storytelling method in the first place--I still found myself plagued every time I sat down to write by thoughts like, This scene needs to have this and this and this, and I only know part of this character's history. They're not engaging enough yet!
It didn't help that I was also sabotaging my blog by obsessing over things like SEO and optimal posting times for social media.
Writing is a process. If you want to get published, you can't just throw some words on the page and call it good. You have to think about things: your characters, their stories, the way everything layers together. You have to edit, and sometimes it takes twenty drafts or more before you're satisfied with what you have. It's hard work. And that's fine.
But it's also supposed to be fun. And for a while, writing stopped being fun for me. So I haven't written much lately. Not that I would ever quit writing or give up on my dreams; I just lost my vision, and writing became harder because of that.
So I've been doing some soul searching. And naturally, my thoughts turned back to the piano.
At the same time as I read that book on storytelling, I was also reading Stuart Isacoff's Natural History of the Piano. I had no idea when I first picked it up just how much it would apply to my writing.
Isacoff's work delved deep into the history of my favorite instrument, including the lives of composers whose names and music I have loved, but for whom I have lacked a fully contextual understanding. It opened my eyes.
Did you know people in Schubert's time made fun of his music because it wasn't as focused on technique as Beethoven's was? Or that a New York critic suggested concert halls should hang a sign by their doors saying Exit in case of Brahms?
But wait, there's more:
Schumann and Mendelssohn lived with some serious mental health issues.
Chopin had a chronic illness.
Beethoven broke everything he touched and had a messy apartment.
Bülow's wife--who happened to be Liszt's daughter--left him for Wagner.
Critics said George Gershwin wasn't going anywhere.
And more than one great pianist was said to be awkwardly built or have an unattractive face, and that you would never guess they could play so beautifully.
These people, who today we call masters, were people. They were awkward, clumsy, fragile, criticized, misunderstood, and, more often than not, weren't appreciated until they were dead.
But they just did their thing. They had fun with their music, they experimented and pushed the boundaries, and they created works that will live forever--despite what may have been popular in their day.
Perhaps, just like me.
Reading their experiences took me back to a music theory class in college, where the professor played the compositions we had written for our homework. I was proud of my own work--I had enjoyed writing it--and when he finished playing mine, he said, "Technically, it works. It has everything I asked for. But it's not very . . . conventional."
From the back of the room a classmate declared, in his thick Venezuelan accent, "Nathan is not bound by conventions."
To this day I count it one of the greatest compliments I've ever received.
Maybe other people won't consider my writing "conventional." Maybe I won't be a best-selling author, or any kind of real success as the world may define it. Or maybe I will be. I hope to be.
But I have to remember why I'm doing it.
Yeah, I would love it if my writing could pay the bills someday.
I would love to see my work on bookstore shelves and in the hands of readers.
I want to let my stories out into the world.
I want to be taken seriously.
I have dreams I'm not giving up.
But deep down, the real reason I write is because it's fun and I love doing it.
My Facebook memories this week turned up a post from my college days, before I was so worried about all the stuff I've been worried about in my writing. At the risk of appearing to toot my own horn, this is what it said:
We're our own worst critics. I turned in a paper this last week that I was sure I had bombed, and I was not looking forward to hearing what my teacher had to say about it. But I was overjoyed when the 100% grade came back today with this note from the teacher: "Nathan, what a great paper! You are a wonderful writer--witty, thoughtful, and precise. I immensely enjoyed reading this paper. ... The writing here is crisp and elegant. You have very good command of some nice stylistic patterns. ... Looking forward to your second paper! (Don't really have any feedback for you; your writing is solid.)" Needless to say, that made my entire day. College has forced me to grow a lot as a writer, and it's great to get this kind of validation from a respected professor.
I remember this paper. I really didn't think the teacher would like it, but I threw caution to the wind and had fun writing it anyway. I didn't worry about perfection. And yet it became one of my best-received papers.
That's the interesting thing about letting go of perfectionism: When I give myself the freedom to just enjoy what I'm doing and let myself come out, I end up producing my best work anyway.
There are as many writing styles as there are writers. No one will pick up any of my books wanting Poe or Steinbeck or Fitzgerald. They'll be in it for the story, told in a way only Nathan Cunningham could tell it.
And I'll still work on improving at the craft. I'll still try to create something I can build a career on. But my focus now is simply the enjoyment of writing: just writing my stories and living my fantasies; just enjoying the camaraderie of my writing groups; just creating something.
Just doing what drew me to writing in the first place, perfectionism be darned.
And, in case you were wondering, the piano and I eventually made up. Arthritis and a busy life have made it difficult to play like I used to, but I am still very much in love with this instrument. Because I'm incorrigible, here's another video of me playing:
With the new year fast approaching, many people are examining their lives and making resolutions to improve themselves.
If you're like me, your goals likely involve making better use of your mornings. With titles like "5 Things Super Successful People Do Before 8 AM," self-help articles abound in ways to supercharge your day. They generally sound something like this:
Get up at 5:00 AM. Schedule time to sleep when you're dead.
Listen to an audiobook while doing yoga. On the treadmill.
Bathe in ice water. Visualize all the unsuccessful peasants you'll step on today.
Eat a protein-rich breakfast of condor eggs and avocado toast.
Write in a journal. Use terms like paradigm shift and thought leader.
I've tried some of the ideas in these articles. They're not bad. And, as a millennial, I have to love avocado toast.
But freezing showers? 5:00 AM? Not my thing. I wouldn't be surprised if they're not yours, either.
For those of us who don't find paradigm shifts or thought leadership particularly exciting, I propose a different morning routine--one that doesn't require a certain amount of protein in your breakfast or an eagerness to die.
And it's incredibly simple:
Just get ready for your day . . . but also give yourself time to do at least one thing you love.
Love to read? Make time for a good book before you head to work.
Have a garden? Breathe some fresh air and enjoy your flowers in the morning.
Play an instrument? You may want to check with your roommates, but start your day with a song or two.
And if your ideal morning still involves a treadmill or a frozen bath, those are great ideas, too. The whole idea is to start your day the best way possible--for you.
As for me, I set aside some writing time each morning, and I can tell the difference when I miss it. I love going to work knowing I've already gotten to express myself creatively, and my customers and my company benefit from that positive energy, too.
The bottom line is, take care of yourself. Make your health--physical and mental--a priority. We all define success in different ways. But good things follow happiness.
Here's to a happy and successful new year, friends. I can't wait to see what you do with it!
Why does God let bad things happen to good people?
Turn on the news and you get a stream of murders, thefts, assaults, and kidnappings; house fires, landslides, storms, and floods; car accidents, injustice, corruption, and disease.
And good luck escaping through entertainment. Open almost any book or go to the movies, and you get the same load piled on, because this is what we know.
In my younger days I didn't think too much about the darkness that surrounded me just for being in this world. But now--especially as a parent of young children--I see what happens in the news and popular entertainment and can't help but hurt.
I see the victims of violence and other crimes and think of my own children, so innocent, so sweet and loving and bright and good--too good for the world they will inherit.
I want to protect them. I want to hold them close and tell them it will all be okay. I want to keep all the bad parts of the world away from them.
And because I've learned to see through the tender eyes of a concerned parent, and have practiced seeing through others' eyes studying the humanities in college, my heart breaks every time the bad parts of the world hurt someone else, too.
The victim of that mugging? He was just trying to get home from work, where he toiled all day to make sure his family had something to eat.
The victim of that carjacking? A single mother on her way to school.
The victim of trafficking? Only a child, torn from his family and everything he knows, obsessed with trucks and trains and Sesame Street, now crying and abused and far away from home because his sale could make some money.
The accidental victim of that drive-by shooting? She wasn't in a gang. She didn't know anyone in a gang. And she had plans she'd worked so hard for, friends who cared about her, talents and potential that would go with her into the ground because she walked down the wrong street.
Suicides. Hurricanes. Bullying. War.
Everyone in these stories is a human being, with a life and talents and experiences and relationships as rich and detailed as my own. Somebody loves them. Somebody depends on them.
Maybe I've gone soft, but even some of the scripture stories I grew up with trouble me these days. Recently I re-read the account of Alma and Amulek, a pair of ancient missionaries in the Book of Mormon, and their experience as they taught the word of God in a city called Ammonihah.
Few people listened to these missionaries. In fact, things were so bad in this city that the people took all those who believed and burned them to death--forcing Alma and Amulek to watch.
I've never liked that story, but it had never affected me too much. Now, though, I could hardly handle reading it. I related so strongly to Amulek, who, when he "saw the pains of the women and children who were consuming in the fire, he also was pained; and he said unto Alma: How can we witness this awful scene?" (Alma 14:10).
I ask again: why does God let bad things happen to good people?
The question is worth discussing. But even though I believe I have some of the answers, that's not the point I want to make today.
My point is this: Recently I've realized more and more that that question, as valid as it may be, is incomplete. It only considers this life, in this world.
Concerning the victims of the flames, Alma answers Amulek, "the Lord receiveth them up unto himself, in glory" (Alma 14:11).
Another Book of Mormon character, Ether--who saw some terrible things in his own time, including the complete extermination of his people--writes, "whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world" (Ether 12:4).
We can ask why bad things happen all we want. And maybe we'd be right.
But I choose to believe in God, and to trust Him, because bad things happen.
In a world where every day we run the risk of meeting gun-wielding psychopaths at school, work, dinner, the movie theater, the library, the mall, and even at church, one thing keeps me from locking myself into my house and never coming out again:
The promise of a better world.
Someday, these terrible things won't happen anymore. There will be no more war, no more hate, no more theft, no more death, no more pain--no more of the darkness I feel constantly pressing in. Even minor inconveniences like traffic jams will be a thing of the past.
In the eternal picture, the heartaches and injustices of this world really only last one fleeting moment. And, according to my belief system, pretty much everybody will get to enjoy a better world than this one when we're done here.
We'll all make it there. Someday, we will all be happy, safe, and whole.
The hope that idea gives me is exactly what keeps me from living in constant fear. It's what inspires me to go help customers at work, to go out and make fun memories with my family, to see the good in the world and live joyfully and fully and contribute everything I can to make this world a better place as long as I'm here.
That hope is what I celebrate at Christmas.
Because of the baby born in Bethlehem, a light shines through the darkness. Because that little Jesus grew to take upon himself the pains and sins of everyone, we can all enjoy the hope He brought the world that starry night in the manger.
Every loss, every challenge, every hurt will be made up to us. From the smallest inconveniences to the deepest sorrows and most harrowing nightmares, everything will be made right.
In the meantime, when the world feels like it's caving in around me, I choose to hold on to that promise.
It turns out the Murphy of Murphy's Law was a real person. Which is good, because in the next life I'm gonna have some questions for him.
I have one day a week when I can reasonably run errands and do projects. So, on my day off this week, my wife and I made ambitious plans to finish all our Christmas shopping, go to the library, and pick up some milk.
And, lucky us, we just happened to find some cash in our basement. A Christmas miracle!
Enter Murphy.
It was bad enough we still couldn't find any gifts in our price range for the people on our list. But then, on our way out of a parking lot to try the next store . . . our car died.
As in, "call a tow truck" dead.
Don't let the cute toys fool you. This ain't fun.
Image credit: Dickie Toys
I didn't say anything for a moment as my blood pressure rose. I may have steamed more than the car did. On my one day off, I thought. I don't have the time or the money for this!
I called my favorite towing company. Because this has happened enough that I have a favorite towing company (but we can't buy a new car yet because we keep spending our money to just be able to drive our current one--a terrible cycle).
Their soonest available truck was at least two hours out. And it was cold, and I was mad, and my mechanic wouldn't be open in two hours.
I took a moment to breathe. Then I used my handy-dandy smartphone to google other towing companies and got a truck out with just enough time for my mother-in-law to take my wife and kids home.
The repairs ended up using all that cash we found in our basement.
I don't write this to complain. I don't want pity. I don't want money. An extra day off might be nice, but you can't give me that.
I only bring this up to point out that, more often than we realize, blessings don't really look like blessings.
And our family car breaking down when it did truly was a blessing.
The next day, my wife had planned to visit her sister in a town thirty miles away. While I don't doubt she would have been capable of handling the problem, I'm glad it happened close to home and at a time when I could be there.
The tow company that came to our aid ended up being more affordable than the company we normally use.
And that money we just happened to find that morning? That definitely looked like a blessing at the start; we just didn't realize what kind. We were meant to use it for our car repairs so we wouldn't completely break the bank.
Sometimes we think of miracles as these grand, once- or twice-in-a-lifetime moments when the heavens open up and God's voice thunders from the clouds. A cancer patient is miraculously cured. A baby, born blue in the face, miraculously breathes. A boulder miraculously misses a car on a mountain road.
And those are miracles.
But we can easily forget that small miracles surround us every single day. Some may be obvious blessings: arriving to work on time despite heavy traffic; a presentation turning out much better than expected; a friend sending a much-needed text.
Other blessings may come disguised--but they're miracles, too. Like the time I missed my bus to school . . . but discovered the train was not only more comfortable, but also faster. Or the time I failed a class and had to delay my graduation . . . but gained skills and friends I couldn't leave college without.
Or the time my car died on my day off . . . but I had the time and money to take care of it.
When life gets heavy, pause and take a look around. The miracles will surprise you.
Elementary school nearly scared me away from college.
A presenter visited my fifth-grade class one day to teach us how to perform research at a library. She used terms like Dewey Decimal System, demonstrated how to use a card catalog, and promised us that when we got to college--even high school, depending on the class--we would spend endless nights with our noses crammed in books.
I imagined myself then reading through thick volumes to find one quote to use in the lengthy papers I was also promised I would have to write.
It took me probably a month to get through Harry Potter. Library research? Not. For. Me.
There's a reason N and O are next to each other in the alphabet.
Image credit: Your Dictionary
Thankfully by middle school, Google had arrived to save the day (and my future education). I never did have to sort through a card catalog like some barbarian, and with every click of the mouse I breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn't stuck in the library. The world changed--and it changed in my favor.
(Looking back, I have to appreciate the irony that I became an English major and ended up spending countless nights with my nose crammed in a book anyway. But I digress.)
A lot of things are so much easier now thanks to technology: research, communication, finding directions to that new Indian restaurant. With a tap on a screen, I can read the news, schedule a colonoscopy, and wish a friend a happy birthday.
When you sit back and think about it, the level of sorcery we've attained is truly amazing. In the old days, we would have all been burned as witches. We're truly blessed.
But I also can't help but wonder if we've lost something. And by we, I mostly mean I--but maybe you can relate.
I've always been prone to nostalgia. Sometimes I drive certain roads just because I used to go there with my friends. I consider the Super Nintendo the pinnacle of gaming. I've loaded my Bricklink wishlist with Lego sets from the 80's and 90's.
And if the multitude of 90's nostalgia pages I've followed on Facebook is any indication, I'm not the only one. Even Wendy's got in on the action with a recent ad campaign:
Nostalgia serves a valuable purpose. J.M. Barrie said, "God gave us memories that we might have roses in December."
Whatever age one grew up in, who doesn't, on occasion, look back with a smile on what appears to have been a simpler time?
I miss late-night summer drives, letting the cool air blow in from the open window and feeling no responsibility for anyone but myself.
I miss Saturday mornings playing Donkey Kong Country in my friend's basement, on a boxy television that hummed when you turned it on.
I miss the charming, light-hearted aesthetic of 90's Lego catalogs, whose colorful backgrounds and smiling characters transported me to a happier world.
I can't help but smile when I think of all those things. But to entertain thoughts of the past requires balance--a delicate walk between living in the past and learning from it. And I have to recognize that the past, as beautiful as it was, isn't necessarily better than the life I have now.
The Lego sets from my childhood continue to fill me with wonder, and they feel positively different from what the company produces today. Different--not better. What I wouldn't have given to have a set like the massive Ninjago City when I was a kid!
And while a hallmark of the Super Nintendo is how its games have stood the test of time, I know my seven-year-old eyes would have gone wide with amazement at, say, Mario Kart 8.
And yeah, I have a lot more responsibility now than I did as a teenager. But I'm also married to my best friend, and we have three children who I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. They light up my whole life.
Whenever I start thinking about "the good ol' days," I try to steer those thoughts toward an internal discussion of what lessons I can use from them.
If I long for a simpler time, maybe I should make this time simpler.
If my happy memories are about people, maybe I should leave my phone in a back room while I spend quality time with my family.
Maybe I can use the Internet to access the vast stores of human knowledge instead of arguing with strangers over politics.
Maybe I can go outside a little more, or read more books, or build my own happy Lego town.
Someday I'll look back on this time of my life the same way I look back on my childhood. Right now, I get to choose what that future me will see.
Thomas S. Monson has said, "The past is behind, learn from it. The future is ahead, prepare for it. The present is here, live it." By learning from the past and truly appreciating the present, I can make memories the future me will treasure.
These are the moments I will someday get nostalgic for.
I love working in customer service. I get to talk to lots of people all around the country every single day, and I've made some great connections. I feel like I'm doing something truly meaningful by serving my customers, and I love to help them.
But not everyone loves calling customer service. And sometimes, the experience leaves much to be desired--for both the customer and the service representative.
You can make it easier, though. For those moments when you have to make that call, here are five tips to help you have a better customer service experience:
I had a customer call in upset because she placed her order on a Friday, paid for 1-3 business day shipping, and didn't receive her package before Monday.
I promised her free shipping on her next order, because losing a customer over shipping is just stupid, and it was the best I could do to smooth things over.
Here's the thing, though: I know we gave her a realistic delivery date when she ordered over the phone, because that's a key element of every sales offer my company makes. And Monday is only the first business day after Friday. If she ordered on a Friday and had listened to the sales representative, she wouldn't have expected her package over the weekend. But she ended up disappointed.
Unfortunately, this kind of thing happens all the time.
If you're calling customer service, please listen to what they tell you. Chances are you'll save yourself a bad experience and another phone call.
2. Don't Let Your Issue Become an Emergency
In general, the customers I encounter who get the most upset over things like shipping and service times are the ones who procrastinated in the first place.
I get it. Sometimes things break. Sometimes the people you count on--yes, even the companies you pay for services--under-deliver. And you can't really plan on that happening. Legitimate emergencies happen.
But often, planning ahead is entirely possible. Know when you're moving? Don't wait to call the cable company. Don't know how to fix that leaky pipe? Call the plumber as soon as you notice it. Need your contact lenses in order to tell your child apart from a cactus? Order them before you run out.
Save yourself the stress. And save the service associate your stress, too.
3. We Don't Make the Prices
I didn't think there were so many of this kind of person out there, but every single day when I quote a price, I have more than one customer say, "Nope, I'm not gonna pay that," "I want free shipping," or "Wow, that's really expensive. Can I get a discount?"
And of course I say, "Oh, I'm sorry. Let me just change the price for you."
Except, wait, I don't.
If it were up to me, everything would be affordable to everyone, and the moment you ordered something it would poof onto your doorstep. Really. I'm on your side, here.
But this is not a perfect world, and I don't make the prices.
And I know you're used to getting free shipping with your Amazon Prime or whatever (which still costs money, by the way). But here in real life, you have to pay the people who bring you your package. Just like how decent people tip their waiter.
Trust me--I've worked for both UPS and a restaurant. If you don't pay those blessed souls, they will cut you.
Sure, discounts happen now and then. Coupons are a thing. My company even price matches. And under some conditions, you might even get free shipping.
But you'll be happier if you understand those are exceptions--not the rule.
I'll be the first to admit I cave in sometimes. Because, again, losing a sale over something like shipping? Stupid. But it just makes you sound like a spoiled child, and I guarantee I'm judging you while we're on the phone.
Remember what I said about things poofing onto your doorstep?
Yeah. Some customers think I can do that.
As nice as it would be, I cannot make the Postal Service get to your house faster.
I cannot change my company's policies because they inconvenience you.
I cannot magically create a better rebate or promotion.
I wish I could, because I want to help you. I wish I could just say the words and whatever you needed would be done.
But customer service isn't God. As much as we dislike to say it, we have limits. If you're nice, though, we'll try to make it up to you.
5. We're People, Just Like You
Imagine your day. Your week. What are your passions? What are you going through? What do you want out of life? What have you done, and who do you love?
Your life is complex. You are more than just a voice on the phone.
So is the customer service representative.
One of my coworkers is expecting her first child. Another is an agented author, waiting for a publisher to buy her book.
We have lives outside the call center. We have sick kids at home, cars that need repairs, big plans for the weekend.
You may be frustrated. You may be in a hurry. But please, remember you're speaking to a person.
I love working in 
