Like a Rock

Ever hear the Bob Seger song "Like a Rock"? (Sure you have, they use it for the Ford truck commercials!) I've heard the song a thousand times, always thought it was a nice little tune, but yesterday -for the first time- I actually listened to it. I paid attention to the lyrics and I was simply blown away. Maybe it's because I just turned 38 (the age of the man in the song) and I can truly appreciate the nostalgia of looking back and remembering what it was like to be 18. It was a bit of a strange revelation for me. I've never been one to care very much about age. I've always just been . . . me! Didn't matter how old I was, I just kept on doing my thing, ya' know? Suddenly, I'm driving the car (alright, mini-van!) listening to this song and for the first time ever it truly hits me that I'm not 18 anymore. I'm fat, bald, slow, have aches and pains, think before I react, plan everything to death, and avoid pissing people off if I can. That's a far cry from the 18 year old long haired, bridge burning, firebrand who had all the answers and would run down anyone who got in his way because "truth" and "justice" were the only things that mattered. I still believe in those things but I've come to realize that I don't have a monopoly on either one and that I can be just as wrong (at times) as all the other assholes in this world that piss me off. I've learned to keep my mouth shut and let folks live their own lives. Still, it saddens me somewhat that that kid is gone. He's the person I always thought I was, only now I realize that's not me anymore. It's strange. Like I said: it saddens me, but it's also uplifting in a way. I've come quite a distance in 20 years: seen, done, and survived more things than I ever could have imagined and I like to think I'm a better person for it. I talked to my wife about it last night and she made a good point: "We've got each other, a great son, and a great life. You're doing okay."

Yea, that works for me.

(Wouldn't mind having the hair and body back though!)

Funny thing: the wife was asking me about my writing last night and about dealing with incoming rejections, etc. She said something to the effect of: "Even if you never get published, you'll still be happy with your life, right?" She must have asked me that five times and all I did was scowl at her each time she said it. I believe the woman is worried I might have a complete breakdown if I don't make it as a professional writer! (Relax babe, there's no bottle of sleeping pils in my future!) The fact is, this is not something I can set aside and say: Gee, it didn't work. I'll be writing till they plant my ass in the dirt, whether I get published or no. (I have to believe that at some point I will be) I'm a writer. I write. The scowls were not because I was angry at the question (actually, it was because I found her nervousness funny!) but because being published is just the goal, not the purpose. Writing is a kinda like sports: getting the points on the board is the goal, but it's not why you're there. Being part of something larger than yourself, finding your own limits and pushing past them: all that and more. That's writing . . . that's what I do . . . who I am.

Publishing is the goal, not the purpose. (But you can bet your ass I will do an extended version of the happy-snoopy-dance-of-joy the day it happens!) Ah well, that's enough "exploring the inner self" for one day. Any more sappy crap and I'll go into a sugar coma . . .

Later!