Risk Enough
Yesterday, a co-worker said something that I haven't really been able to shake. We were talking about his family. In explaining his father, my co-worker said that he thought his father's problem had been that he never took risks. He played it safe, too safe in my co-worker's opinion. Granted we were talking about the family finances and why his father had often worked three jobs, but that's not why his comment - stated completely in passing on our way to further conversation - stuck with me. I'm not worried about finances (though I probably should be). I am, however, worried that maybe I haven't taken enough risks.
Come on, Stacee, really? You moved from Muskegon, Michigan to the near backwoods of East Texas because you were in love with a woman who arguably wasn't courageous enough to love you back. Then after one Sunday afternoon in Austin, you decided to uproot yourself and move to a city where the only people you knew were a crazy ex-girlfriend and her (thankfully sane) girlfriend. Then a couple years later after seeing an add on Facebook, of all places, you applied to graduate school at St. Edward's University. Those were pretty big risks, weren't they?
To some people, but in my mind they weren't really risks. Let's call them moderately risky. Sure, I could have fallen flat on my ass, but with a modicum of effort and, in one case, a bit of pharmaceutical intervention I managed to succeed. I'm not talking about those kinds of risks. I'm talking about risks that require maximum effort; risks that exist firmly outside one's comfort zone.
Like a trip to a foreign country where you don't speak the language? Ok, kind of. Booking my trip to Sweden and Denmark was a bold move, but it's not like I'm going to Africa or the border between Brazil and Peru. Sweden and Denmark rank #3 and #2, respectively, on a list of the world's best non-native English speakers (the Netherlands captured the top spot), so I actually do pretty much speak the language. And even though I've vowed to try a bit of native cuisine, there will be McDonald's available.
I guess I'm looking for an even bigger challenge. Something that will bring me to the brink emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Something that will push me beyond my current mediocrity toward the extraordinary. I keep saying that I have the power, the wherewithal, to be extraordinary. And yet, I keep counting money, mixing paint, playing tennis, training for half-marathons, saying I'm going to re-write my first novel, and researching my Next Major Project. Not one check-box on that list requires me to take even the slightest step outside my comfort zone. Moreover, none will get me even one iota above mediocre.
But the novel. It's good and once you finish editing it, it'll be great - maybe even a best seller. That sounds pretty extraordinary. Don't get me wrong. It'd be freaking cool to have a best seller. Hell, it'd be great to have even one person who doesn't know me buy a book I wrote. But... the novel is a lesbian romance. It is the epitome of the phrase "sell out". When I wrote it, I thought that I'd be ok with selling out. After all, it would mean selling something and that was all I cared about. At the time.
Now, after much thought, consideration, and research, I'm not completely ok with that. I'm not saying I want to write the next Great American Novel or change the world in any way, but I do want to write something with substance. Maggie and Stella, the protagonists in my novel, were great fun - they are great fun - however they aren't exactly extraordinary. While I don't have it in me to write great literature (Readers will never have to wonder about symbolism or any fancy-schmancy literary devices, If any occur in my writing, they are purely accidental), I do have it in me to write history. And not boring text book history. Scintillating history. History that leaps off the page.
This may not make me extraordinary, but it will make me feel extraordinary and that's almost as good.Seriously, there's got to be someone teaching history at some community college and writing historical fiction on the side who thinks that she is hum-drum and devastatingly mediocre. Maybe she should have gotten the PhD or applied for a better job. Maybe she should watch Netflix less and write more. Who know? Still, that life sounds extraordinary compared to the money counting, paint mixing, and tennis matches that dominate my current existence.
So, that said, maybe I'll get the PhD and apply for the better job. Maybe I'll have "Historian" on my business cards and name plate. And best selling author in my bio. Never know.
I keep wondering if I'm too old, though. Risks are for the young, right? It's time to settle down, accept what is. I mean I'm well past forty-seven and a half.
Then I remember that I'm not dead yet and, by God, it's never too late to shed mediocrity and become extraordinary.
And seriously, maybe the truly extraordinary thing is that I am old. Well, older. At an age when most people are packing up and putting risk away for good, I'm getting ready to take a really big one? Yep. That sounds pretty extraordinary to me.
Come on, Stacee, really? You moved from Muskegon, Michigan to the near backwoods of East Texas because you were in love with a woman who arguably wasn't courageous enough to love you back. Then after one Sunday afternoon in Austin, you decided to uproot yourself and move to a city where the only people you knew were a crazy ex-girlfriend and her (thankfully sane) girlfriend. Then a couple years later after seeing an add on Facebook, of all places, you applied to graduate school at St. Edward's University. Those were pretty big risks, weren't they?
To some people, but in my mind they weren't really risks. Let's call them moderately risky. Sure, I could have fallen flat on my ass, but with a modicum of effort and, in one case, a bit of pharmaceutical intervention I managed to succeed. I'm not talking about those kinds of risks. I'm talking about risks that require maximum effort; risks that exist firmly outside one's comfort zone.
Like a trip to a foreign country where you don't speak the language? Ok, kind of. Booking my trip to Sweden and Denmark was a bold move, but it's not like I'm going to Africa or the border between Brazil and Peru. Sweden and Denmark rank #3 and #2, respectively, on a list of the world's best non-native English speakers (the Netherlands captured the top spot), so I actually do pretty much speak the language. And even though I've vowed to try a bit of native cuisine, there will be McDonald's available.
I guess I'm looking for an even bigger challenge. Something that will bring me to the brink emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Something that will push me beyond my current mediocrity toward the extraordinary. I keep saying that I have the power, the wherewithal, to be extraordinary. And yet, I keep counting money, mixing paint, playing tennis, training for half-marathons, saying I'm going to re-write my first novel, and researching my Next Major Project. Not one check-box on that list requires me to take even the slightest step outside my comfort zone. Moreover, none will get me even one iota above mediocre.
But the novel. It's good and once you finish editing it, it'll be great - maybe even a best seller. That sounds pretty extraordinary. Don't get me wrong. It'd be freaking cool to have a best seller. Hell, it'd be great to have even one person who doesn't know me buy a book I wrote. But... the novel is a lesbian romance. It is the epitome of the phrase "sell out". When I wrote it, I thought that I'd be ok with selling out. After all, it would mean selling something and that was all I cared about. At the time.
Now, after much thought, consideration, and research, I'm not completely ok with that. I'm not saying I want to write the next Great American Novel or change the world in any way, but I do want to write something with substance. Maggie and Stella, the protagonists in my novel, were great fun - they are great fun - however they aren't exactly extraordinary. While I don't have it in me to write great literature (Readers will never have to wonder about symbolism or any fancy-schmancy literary devices, If any occur in my writing, they are purely accidental), I do have it in me to write history. And not boring text book history. Scintillating history. History that leaps off the page.
This may not make me extraordinary, but it will make me feel extraordinary and that's almost as good.Seriously, there's got to be someone teaching history at some community college and writing historical fiction on the side who thinks that she is hum-drum and devastatingly mediocre. Maybe she should have gotten the PhD or applied for a better job. Maybe she should watch Netflix less and write more. Who know? Still, that life sounds extraordinary compared to the money counting, paint mixing, and tennis matches that dominate my current existence.
So, that said, maybe I'll get the PhD and apply for the better job. Maybe I'll have "Historian" on my business cards and name plate. And best selling author in my bio. Never know.
I keep wondering if I'm too old, though. Risks are for the young, right? It's time to settle down, accept what is. I mean I'm well past forty-seven and a half.
Then I remember that I'm not dead yet and, by God, it's never too late to shed mediocrity and become extraordinary.
And seriously, maybe the truly extraordinary thing is that I am old. Well, older. At an age when most people are packing up and putting risk away for good, I'm getting ready to take a really big one? Yep. That sounds pretty extraordinary to me.
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