Steve Jobs and the Zen of being who you were meant to be

Most people that have known me for any length of time would consider me to be a “fan” of Steve Jobs; that perception would not be entirely accurate. Like many, I felt a kinship with the good Mr. Jobs that is difficult to articulate, but objectively, what do I have in common with a man that lived his life to the fullest and was able to succeed at exactly what he wanted to do. So far, the answer is: not much.

I’ve lived for more decades than I care to admit and my success at various career(s) are not relatable to Steve’s success. I’ve been a musician, got some radio airplay forever ago, a graphic artist for various companies, an IT Director where I helped a company grow from 79 employees to 416 in less than 3 years, CEO of a couple of tech startups, and a filmmaker. While my work for others has seen their fortunes grow, I have, as yet, to see my fortunes offer the kind of stability that would contribute to any feeling of security. Like most of you reading this, I often find myself “sweating it.”

How does any of this have anything to do with Steve? I’m a writer and musician, yet I have spent the majority of my life working “real jobs” at the behest of others, on some sort of societal level at the very least. I never gave up being a writer or musician in my mind, but I have spent only a few years out of decades of work experience doing what I was meant to do. In my opinion, Steve never did that, and that’s what made him the best at what he did. He did what he was meant to do, and he consistently made himself better at it. I made myself a better writer and musician and consistently did something else. Was I wrong in doing what I needed to do to get by? Looking back, I would have to say that yes, I was absolutely wrong.

The universe gives us all a certain predisposition to something. For some, it’s breaking down an engine and putting it back together blindfolded. For some, it’s the ability to slice the perfect piece of fish and add a little rice vinegar, rice, and wasabi to make nigiri. For others it could be welding the perfect joint—every time. For me, it was writing; yet I did not write. What kind of person ignores what they are supposed to do you may ask? I have the answer to that … I know … I know—an unsuccessful person. I could be the best damn IT Director in the world, and I was very good at what I did, but why should the universe, or karma, or whatever, reward me for doing something I wasn’t meant to do. The answer is, of course, it shouldn’t. The fact that I worked hard at it and had certain gifts in the field shouldn’t matter, since if I sat back and took an honest gander at right and wrong, what I was doing wasn’t right. I was shitting on my abilities by not pursuing them.

Steve pursued his abilities and for the limited time he was here, he gave a lot to this world. 

It’s probably our job to give what we can to the world, too. I mean, why should the world reward us otherwise. 

Sometimes it’s easier to observe these things from a distance. I have a friend, he’s a painter. In my humble opinion, he’s the best modern painter I have seen. His paintings move me … seriously, in my heart they mean something to me I can’t even put into words. He’s an artist. Only he’s not; he manages the ad design personnel at a newspaper. I can see how he needs to be who he is—an artist. It’s so fucking obvious.

It’s obvious because it’s not me.

I shouldn’t have been successful at what I was doing because it wasn’t what I was made to do, I wasn’t being who I was supposed to be.

But I am a writer now.

I am in the process of living my life as I was meant to; universe, now it’s your turn to make this right. Come on karma, give me a chance, I’m doing my part.

Steve, if you would, put in the good word to whoever has some pull in your Nirvana, tell them, “Hey, this guy finally got it through his thick head.”

I’d really appreciate it.

Oh, and Steve … chill. You’ve earned it.

Why Writing Is NOT Story Analysis

My daughter has been in advanced placement English courses for most of her years in high school, but just as she sees the opportunity to read classics like 1984 as part of her assigned reading, she’s about to drop the class.

Why? Her workload involves not only juggling reading 3 stories simultaneously, but doing a breakdown of each chapter of each story. I understand the scholastic inclination toward analysis, the goal being opening a students understanding of the structure of storytelling; but the reality misses the mark.

You see analysis is in the eye of the beholder. Writing is a right brain activity, while deconstructive analysis is left brain all the way. No one has ever created a book, or a poem, or a song, or software, or a great pizza by analytical breakdown. First, you savor the pizza, you are moved by the poem, you relate to the novel’s characters. Perhaps the song means something to you that words can’t express, or you use the software without having to study its intricacies, it is intuitive to your very nature.

This is creativity. This is where our aspirations should lie. What’s compelling is the  merging of elements, it is in this that we find satisfaction. Formulaic writing is something that is generally abhorred by all, yet forcing literature into a formulaic analysis is what we are taught. Is this what gets you off when reading? Is this really what makes you drive through that last 100 pages. I say it is not! That last 100 pages is the culmination of the elements of a novel, it’s where your comprehension of what the novel is really about begins to take hold of you. It is not a breakdown of how many granules of sugar   it took to sweeten the apple, or how the molecules of butter merge with flour and air to for the crust of the pie; it is a sumptuous bite: sweet, salty, savory, flakey, gelatinous, mushy and more. It is the experience we seek. Why don’t we teach the experience? We should revel in the moments, in our senses. How does this make me feel? Can that experience be shared? Should it be? Is it uniquely mine? 

These are the questions that matter when you’re eating a pie, reading a book, listening to a poem. Did the writer offer me something that meant something to me? Did it make me think? Did it make me laugh? The goal of almost anything should be to add something to a person’s life. Giving you the analysis you want to hear does nothing for either of us. Experiencing great art, literature, science, sport, food, these are the tastes of life we need to convey.

What we learn best, we learn through experience and cumulative analysis. I love Jhumpa Lahiri’s writing style. It is beauty in a way that I am unable to articulate. Analysis of The Namesake would provide me with nothing, for it is more than even a story. It transcends. The third person self narrative of Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club changes the way I think about reading. Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon challenges how we see perception within our own minds. Louis Armstrong’s It’s A Wonderful World makes us appreciative of all we have and regretful that we’re too fucking stupid to enjoy what we’re given. These works are historic, but they are historic because they are not analytical breakdowns of what we should listen to, or watch, or read. They are historic because they deliver the combined knowledge and experience of these individuals in a new and palatable way. The importance of palatability should not be underestimated in any of these instances. If they were not enjoyable, and relatable, no one would care.

There was a young man who did not perform exceptionally well in school. He dropped out of university and did not find math relatable enough to succeed at it. He instead worked at a patent office, seeing an overview of the thoughts of others. He discovered simplicity in the interrelation of ideas, the common threads that bound all things together. He did this not through left brain analysis, but right brain exposure to a collection of knowledge.  Of course we know the young man was Albert Einstein, and we know of the results of his genius. But his genius was not a matter of learning each individual element to make a whole, his genius was in seeing what the whole could be from a summary of many wholes. Then he learned how the parts made sense within the context of his process.

I wish my daughter would have had the same opportunity in her class.

I hope that those of you who are here because you can write see that what you have to offer is making the elements of writing fit your vision, not trying of formulate what others did or did not do and then trying to repeat their process.

Peace out.