Stephen King

Homework, in progress from Stephen King’s book “On Writing.”

He must get up, run, but he can’t move.

The last step creaks, jolting Dick to his feet.

“Jane?” he asks.

“Hi, Dickie.”

“Jane,” Dick says, “what are you doing here?”

“I missed you, Dickie,” Jane whispers.

Dick instinctively moves behind the dining room table. “You’re not allowed to be here, Jane,” Dick replies.

“I missed you, Dickie. I missed you a lot.”

Dick sees the knife. He circles the table, moving as far away from his ex as possible.

“It wasn’t nice, what you did to me,” Jane says. “You took Nell away from me. Took my house away from me. Had me locked up in… that place.”

Jane circles the table too. The knife tip scrapes the wood.

“That… place, Dickie. Do you know how they make you shit in that place, Dickie? You shit right out in front of everyone. Like an animal. Do I look like a fucking animal, Dickie?” Jane growls.

Yes, Dick thought. Yes, dear God, you look like an animal. But he didn’t dare say it out loud. “You don’t look like an animal, Jane. You look beautiful.

“Fucking liar!” Jane shrieks, slashing at the air. “You’re full of shit, Dickie!”

“Mommy…?” Nell asks, frozen at the top of the stairs.

“Nell! Oh baby, come to Mommy!” Jane says turning toward her daughter’s voice.

Dick’s world slows down and he steps outside of himself. Old scars flare the pain of the past roars back. The last time the three of them were in a room together a judge was sentencing his wife to 20 years without parole for nearly beating him to death with a bat while he slept. The doctors had to tell Dick what happened after he wakes from surgery to repair his fractured skull. His parents had to tell Dick that Nell saw it all.

Her daughter’s words distract Jane, and Dick snaps into himself. He’s got one chance. The tea.

Dick grabs the pot of tea from the counter and flings it at his ex-wife, striking her in the head with a thud.

Jane drops to all fours screaming in agony as her skin and hair melt together.

Nell. The stairs. Dick leaps up the steps to Nell, “Honey, let’s go.”

“Daddy…?” Nell repeats. “Mommy…?”

“Nell, we need to get going, Mommy is sick and we need to get help,” Dick doesn’t mention, doesn’t know who the help is for.

Below, Jane is clawing back up to her feet, hands feeling for the knife. It’s too close, they need to escape.

Dick lifts Nell over his shoulder and descends, three steps at a time. At the bottom of the stairs, his ex-wife snags a piece of his shirt.

Clinging

What do you want?

Forgive me, Father,

For I have sinned.

I pursued the goals of Others,

At the expense of my Own.

I pushed to the limits,

To the detriment of my Self.

I’m not special,

The only skill I have is an ability to work harder, to outlast.

I cling to this belief.

So

I refuse to give up,

I endure.

I race, seeking proof.

Never stopping to think.

If I succeed?

I’ll be alone.

 

Be careful what you ask for.

 

“What makes someone your friend?” I ask.

Somehow I forgot.

“They pick up the phone when I call and we’ve had some laughs,” he says.

“That’s a great definition,” I reply.

I haven’t answered the phone in months.

 

You might just get it.

 

I can’t tell if you’re my friend. I like what you say. Am I in a funnel? This feels artificial.

Are we all just funnelling each other?

 

Time slips through fingers like dust,

And blows away.

 

Be careful what you cling to.

You are special.

You might just get it.

#altMBA8

There this beautiful button in the top right corner of this WordPress publishing site. It says, “Write”. It’s a command. It’s an opportunity. I take it.

After writing The Barrel I finished reading Austin Kleon‘s “Show Your Work“. What a wicked book. Today I started pre-reading my course materials for the altMBA in January 2017 (#altMBA8 whoot whoot!) and started with Austin’s “Steal Like an Artist“. It made sense. It’s odd how the universe works sometimes, I talk about stealing from Austin, then read his awesome book which basically says “steal this”. In case you’re wondering I’m telling you that I’m psychic.

I’m working at using my newfound psychic powers to locate as many tribemates (struggling to find a suitable term for future classmates of the altMBA) prior to the course start. It’s not that I have time to kill, quite the opposite actually. I intuit that the longer and deeper we’re connected the better our work will be. Judging by the people I’ve soft stalked so far, some right to the back end of their websites (sorry, Margo @ thatseemsimportant.com and Mario @ IdeaMensch.com), there are going to be A LOT of peak performers in the group.

I have clicked every clickable link on the altMBA website and still have no idea what kind of projects we’ll be working on. All I know is that it promises to be:
1. Hard
2. Awesome
3. Work

I’ve mentioned once or twice that I’m good at work. Now, this isn’t bragging. I consider it the opposite, since I’d love to brag about being able to drain NBA-style 3 pointers all day without trying. That just doesn’t happen for me, I came to terms with failing to make the NBA about 19 years ago. The altMBA looks to be a perfect fit for me since it appears that all you need to survive (there is no pass or fail, you only live through it or you don’t) is the ability to do vast amounts of face melting work. Game on.

I’m going to link this post out to the altMBA and share the heck out of it on Twitter looking for other #altMBA8 tribemates. This might not work, but I’m going to have fun doing it. If you’re in the tribe, hit me up on Twitter @JamesFlawith or email at james@lilworkersafety.ca  and get this party started and answer me this:

Why did you apply for the altMBA?*

*I stole this question from Margo Aaron who has an AWESOME website, check it out!

~James

The Barrel

So many people have started here. Great people. Famous people. Unknown people. This blank page, this blank screen. Nothing separates us. Sure, we have our differences, but here, at the beginning, we are all equal. We are all staring down the same barrel into ourselves. It’s inspiring. It’s terrifying.

How do you know you’re not a writer if you don’t try to write?

Why this isn’t scary. It’s not scary because you can’t screw up. Go ahead, try. If fear of failure is stopping you, write about your fear of failure. Use it. If lack of “original” ideas blocks you, write about the ideas you’re ripping off. Here I am, stealing from Austin Kleon right now.

Think about this. How many unknown writers do you know of? What is the risk?

I will tell you the truth. There is another fear. Fear of success. Fear of being held accountable and responsible. If you don’t write you’ll never have to defend something you’ve written. If you don’t succeed there will be no pressure to level up and do more, do better. If you choose this path, you are hiding. Hiding is not an option.

In order to succeed you must believe that you can succeed and, more importantly, that you deserve to succeed. Don’t we all deserve to succeed? What’s stopping you? Write them down right now, those things that are stopping you. Done? Now, kill them. Take your pen and scratch them out. Done. Nothing stops you.

Maybe you don’t have a story. “What do I write, I can’t think of a story?” you say. Then don’t write a story. Document what you’re doing. It’s as easy as that. You do things, you live your life, you have some skill of some kind. Write it down. Instruct, teach someone else how to do that thing you’re good at.

I’m learning how to write. I am also learning how to teach people. My goal is to contribute to society at scale. What contributions would I like to make? I want to eliminate mindless, unnecessary work. I want to inspire people to become self-aware, to stop working for a wage and start working for themselves. I want to teach people. I want people to believe in themselves.

What do you want?

Musings

Here’s how it happens, for me. I’ll be doing my thing, walking around, driving my truck, playing with my boys, cutting trees near high voltage power lines. Normal things, good things. I’ll feel a tickle in the back of my head. Not really an itching sensation, more like soft fingers strumming the occipital lobe of my brain. A quiet vibration. It’s at this moment, the thoughts come. Ideas. Call it inspiration, motivation, creativity, or a muse or a genius. This is how I got here, right here right now.

After hearing Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED Talk, I understand that I do not have a mental disorder (at least not one that’s currently recognized in the DSM-V). If you’ve got 19m24s listen to Elizabeth. It’s not a problem, I’ll wait for you.

Right here right now.

It all comes together. It’s the muse, as clear as day whispering. I am not a religious man. I am not superstitious. But I am telling you this is real. The things I write, the creativity, this is not me. It is an outside force working through me. This is crucial.

Back in the war, it was every man for himself. If you got chopped down, you were stupid. If you survived, you were smart. Years and years of the war led to the internalization of whatever label you were unfortunate enough to earn. You were so brainwashed that you continue to fight long after escaping our physical incarceration. You are a failure because you fail. You are a success because you succeed. YOU are.

I argue that you are not. You are not a failure because you fail. You are not a success because you succeed. Don’t let them keep labeling you, don’t keep internalizing their scripts, don’t let it go to your head. You are a human. If the muse is responsible for your work, you are absolved, free to continue on your path. You cannot fail. You cannot succeed.

“That is a depressing thought.” No, it isn’t.

Depression is internalization. Expression is externalization. The opposite of depression is expression. Stop the internalization. Start the externalization, the expression. “Of what?” Of anything. Start expressing anything. And work at it. Work harder than you ever have in your life. It’s worth it.

Forget about success and failure since either way it’s not your fault. These are competitive terms, words which pits you against others. Removing yourself from the race you’ve been trained to run your whole lives is not easy. Just do it. Now what? What do you have left when you’re not racing to prove your superiority, not fighting to get more for yourself? You have freedom.

You are free to pursue virtue. You are free to do great things. To care. To trust. To work together. It takes two armies to wage a war. We are all in the same army. The sooner we realize this, the quicker we can battle our real enemies.

Ignorance.

Poverty.

Violence.

Illiteracy.

Slavery.

What else should we target?

War

This is war. I fight every day. It’s not me, it’s a projection of what I think they want me to be. I do well. I survive. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Caged. That’s what we are. We can leave but few of us leave. Our lives depend on it. Livelihoods count on it. Happiness and success dangle. Sticks and carrots both jab and both hurt. It’s war, baby.

There are really only two options here, two choices, if you can call them that. The first is to lay down. The second to stand up. The ones who lay down are rewarded. The ones who stand up are gunned down. You end up on the ground either way, so I choose the dirt. I put my nose in it, breath it in and get angry. I channel the frustration into work, focus, quit asking why (‘why’ is not on the test) and answer correctly. I get rewarded.

I have guilt. I am guilty. I help others. Tell them the answers. Hell, I give them away. It’s not a fair system, it’s not you’re fault you don’t know, the whole battle is rigged anyway. If you don’t know you’re in a fight it’s hard to fight. No amount of beating will change that. I see it, so take what you need to get through. Even the guy that used to beat me, it’s not his fault. It’s the war, one day you’re enemies, the next day your allies. Why? They said so.

The competition. The problem: if you win I can’t win. If I win you can’t win. Scarcity. There’s not enough to go around so only the best survive. If you’re not one of the best, well, hit the dirt.

Look back while pretending to look ahead. He did that so now I have to do this. Being proactive. Or reactive. It doesn’t matter, we’re all dead in the end.

The survivors are held up for the next to worship. The winners are given shiny things. Apotheosis achieved. War won.

Those who didn’t make it? Losers. Failures.

f-report-card

How incredibly unfair it is to label another human being a failure.

Life Your Work

Life is work. There. I said it. I don’t mean that life is putting in 18 hour days slaving at a job that repulses you to make money. I mean that living life, day to day, is work. It takes effort. It takes energy to get out of bed. Scheduling your social activities requires your attention. Raising your children is a challenge. Cleaning the dishes. Walking the dog. Breathing.

When we separate our lives into boxes and identify one activity as “work” and another as “play” we are living a dangerous lie. You may differentiate work and play by highlighting that what you do for work is done for a wage, for an employer, for someone else. Play might be something that you do for yourself, for fun. This is at the crux of the matter. When you work for money you are exerting effort to earn what you need to support your family, your life, yourself. When you work you are actually doing it for yourself. Yes, it may be true that you have chosen to spend your time working for an employer who uses your labor and your ideas to make a profit. Did you see it? The word in that sentence? You have made a choice to sacrifice your time and labor for an agreed upon price. You have chosen to work to live.

But work isn’t fun. Why not? If what you define as work doesn’t get you excited, doesn’t entertain you, doesn’t engage you, why do you choose to do it? Why not do something else that you love, that you can put your energy into? Why not do something that you refuse to call “work” because you enjoy it so much? Let’s be clear. Life is work. It takes a lot of investigation, self-analysis and energy to find The Thing. It may take a day, a month, a year or more to find it. Isn’t it worth investing in yourself instead of choosing to spend the rest of your life working? Is that even a choice?

Try something. Write a list of the top 5 things you spend your time doing that you don’t think of as work. As an example, here is my list:

  1. Spending time with my family
  2. Cutting trees
  3. Finding ways to help people, increasing effectiveness
  4. Learning, reading, writing
  5. Photography

Now, why not exert some energy and choose to do something that makes life your work?

the-men