Writing

Writing is an art. A writer is an artist. Anybody that has ever done arts and crafts with me knows I am not an artist. Anything sticky, such as glue or tape, does not bode well with me. I manage to get it stuck on my fingers, in my hair, anywhere other than the place it actually needs to be. Same goes with paint, which is why no one asks for my help when painting. I'm not sure I could keep within the lines in a coloring book. A task, I'm sure my nieces and nephews can do effortlessly. Fortunately, I am able to laugh at myself and the project. A disconcerting attribute for those taking the project seriously.

Back to writing. I fear my attempts at writing mimic my attempts at other arts and crafts. Words probably don't end up where I want them. Thoughts aren't connected. And the end product does not mirror what was on the box. 

The difference lies in the fact that I actually want to be good at this writing thing one day. My gingerbread houses can remain crooked and paint jobs messy but as for my writing I hope it is understandable, meaningful, colorful, and good. Truly though, I am not even sure what I mean by that. When I typed those words images of Martha Stewart perfectly put together projects came to mind. I don't necessarily want such perfect pieces of work where the edges are smoothed out and the colors don't run together. Let there be rough edges and a messy run of ideas. Ultimately, I just want it to be readable.

In pursuit of this writer ideal I have briefly explored books and articles concerning writing. The best to date is Stephen King's On Writing. His best advice is simply, "If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot." Similarly, Malcolm Gladwell, in his book Outliers, argues the same point for excelling in just about anything. Gladwell suggests that a 10,000 hour rule applies for success. That is, to excel at a task on must perform said task for around 10,000 hours. Achieving 10,000 hours at any task takes up to 10 years, according to Gladwell, concentrating on the task for 20 hours a week.

Seems daunting. Fortunately, I enjoy reading and there are millions of books I need to get to. The daunting part is the writing. Not because I don't like to write but because I fear it. This fear, as many fears, come from my lack of confidence in myself. At times I feel the fear and hesitation comes from the lack of purpose. Obviously, I need to overcome these things if I am to get my 10,000 hours (I think I found my purpose!).

Stephen King also points out the hierarchy of writers. At the bottom of the pyriamid are the bad writers (yes, there are plenty of bad writes he blatantly points out). Up a level are the competent writers. On the much smaller level above competent writers are the really good writers. And at the tippy top where only a very limited number of writers are included are the genius writers, "divine accidents" as King called them. His opinion on the hierarchy is both troubling and motivating depending on where one falls: "While it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writers, and while it is equally impossible to make a great writer out of a good one, it is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication, and timely help to make a good writer out of a merely competent one."

My hope is that I am a competent writer. My hope is that I have it in me to work hard and dedicate myself to this craft. My hope is that my first hopes will produce the hope I stated earlier to be considered a good writer. My hope is that timely help doesn't take too long.

This blog is going to serve as one of those avenues to writing a lot, those audacious 10,000 hours. I realize that it may sometimes feel like my other art and craft projects, out of control. In that, it has its purpose. I don't have an editor. I don't have a proofreader. I just have little old me. In an effort to remove hurdles that would scare me away from writing, it will remain as is. For sake of this blog I write and then I post. I rarely reread and I rarely have more then the one draft. You could say its my thoughts and ideas in its roughest and rawest form. It also makes my blog sound cooler than it really is. Raw and rough really just means bad grammar and sentence structure.

In short, expect to see me posts. If you really don't want to suffer through my ramblings, wait 10 years or so and by then I may have produced some real art. By then I may call myself an artist. Until then, I'll just read and write.

Highway 1

There's a fancy Taco Bell on the beach down the road from me on Highway 1. The other day I was on a day off so I decided to drive down there and get one of the new Cool Ranch Doritos tacos. It was a nice day so I thought I would sit there at this too-fancy-for-its-own-good Taco Bell, eat some tacos-made with who knows what-and maybe get inspired and do some writing. I sat on the beautiful patio of this beach Taco Bell eating my food, uninspired, urging to drive on.

I gave in to the urge and drove on. Which is peculiar because I spent the day before driving 12 or so hours from Salt Lake to San Francisco. Kerouac must have gotten into my subconscious. And let me remind you, I am a flight attendant now, meaning I could have done this for free in considerably much less time. And yet, I needed to get that car out here for the sake of my sanity.

Back to the point, after spending a whole day in a car the day before, I decided to embark on another car journey along a small stretch of Highway 1, also more aptly named, Pacific Coast Highway. My one regret in the spontaneity of this trip is that I wish I could have posted a poster on back my car stating, "I am a tourist. I am enjoying the view. By all means, please pass me!" I swear, the speed limit on that road should be 25 mph. 

Leaving Pacifica, no more than a couple miles from the eloquent Taco Bell,the Pacific Coast Highway turns into a one lane road driving through a forest of trees. A thick layer of trees darkening the day light line both sides of the road. To me it felt like instantly leaving a small city to entering a protected national park or a forest inhabitable for miles.

All the trees soon make sense. Free roaming hills painted in green appear beyond the trees. The highway leads on to a tunnel through the hillside. I'm both a sucker for tunnels and a sympathizer with the tunnel. One thought exclaims "I am driving through a huge chunk of earth right now. This is awesome!" The other side of my conscious simply asks "Was this really necessary?" The two thoughts don't battle long as there are beautiful views of beaches, cliffs, hillsides, and oceans straight ahead.

 That stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway from Pacifica to Santa Cruz is merely a small portion of what California has to offer. It is not in my ability to describe the views and the beauty of that drive I took that day. This is why: As in most things, the scenery only lends itself to an open mind. While I may have seen a countless number of tan sandy beaches, unadulterated coastal land for miles and miles, and rolling hills of green and cattle, another may simply see the road to home or work, or some place anywhere other than where they just were.

I didn't stop to see and take in as much as I should have. I had a destination in mind, Santa Cruz. I wanted to get there with enough daylight to enjoy it. Regardless, I did spot a picturesque lighthouse along the way that screamed at me to check out. The view of that lighthouse sitting on rocky cliffs and the introspection it inspired was worth the time and daylight it required. I was surprised to find it to be a hostel as well. Why not though? It's a view travelling vagabonds feed off of.

It is hard to fight the urge to write a string of adjectives and superlatives when describing the drive along the Pacific Coast Highway. It is simply beautiful. It is one of natures many masterpieces. Where else can you hear the roaring ocean, feel the ocean spray, and stare at rolling green hills? Nowhere were it is quite like Highway 1.

I eventually made it to Santa Cruz. From my short stay I found it to be enjoyable with an intersting crowd. The boardwalk and its rides were open and crowded. People seemed happy. I wandered around aimlessly wondering what I was more drawn to: the open road or the destination?

The sad part of the Pacific Coast Highway? Either way you go, north or south, it ends up right back in a big city where it is forgotten. Where the opportunities of the open road are neglected. Where the mind turns back to the responsibilities of work, family, and human life. Where once again, our life given source is ignored and forgotten.

Still Dreamin'

I use to dream about these days. I use to dream. What happened to the dreamer? Is it true that dreams are reserved for the young? I want to dream again.

The dreams of my youth were fantastical dreams, uninhibited by doubts and fears. Limitations weren't even considered. In those days I would watch the Olympics and dream of being a world class swimmer. I would watch a play at the local Scera Shell and I would dream of being an actor. I listened to a motivational speaker and felt I could inspire the masses. I even imagined myself a young Kenny Chesney at one point.

Dreams carried on to young adulthood. My dream of being young and rich with my own business landed me in schemes that labeled me a sucker and cost a fair share of time and money never to be regained.

College, where dreams live and thrive and die, followed this pattern of inconsistent dreams. It began in high school when I was convinced I was going to be a doctor. Hell, I even memorized bones and parts of bones in Latin for extra credit. It was a dream I actually put some work towards for once. Eventually, that dream died to be filled by other dreams. Like many sleeping dreams these dreams are fuzzy. From pre-med I went to Pharmacy to Business to Parks, Recreation, and Tourism. As with all dreams, mine had to end, my dream of higher education ended there, with a four year degree, six to seven years in the making, in Parks, Recreation, and Tourism.

I'd like to say that like sleeping dreams I had no control over these dreams. However, that is not the case, and as any good man must I have to accept accountability. Dreams changed slowly from out of reach to within arms length.

For nearly all my life, regardless of what dream was occupying my mind, I was always dreaming of travel and adventure. That one dream, that always persisted, sometimes more so than other times, led me to this conjuncture of my life.

I ended up with a Sustainable Tourism Management emphasis with my degree mostly because it facilitated my dreaming. I sat in classrooms with like-minded, or near like-minded, individuals discussing various aspects of travel and recreation. I took a class in which its only purpose was to discuss every country, state, and region as a travel destination. We discussed what to do, when to go, and why to go. Each destination received a rating as its value as a travel destination according to the professor, who was justly qualified as he had been to every single one of these destinations. Every country, state, and region-minus two-had been visited by this esteemed professor. I envied him.

This same professor taught a tour management class as well. I was keen to learn more. The final project for the class was a group project involving the entire class. As a class we planned a tour that could be done in the Salt Lake area. We rented a tour bus went to a couple haunted sites, a chocolate factory, and then we went on a helicopter ride. This was a dreamer's class.

Although I took classes in rock climbing, mountain climbing, backpacking, and wilderness survival as part of my degree I feel that I could have done so much more. Options were endless within the curriculum, from scuba diving to skiing. The time and money I spent into pursuing higher education killed any dreams other than finishing school.

This is what scared me about getting married, having a family, and having a career. I thought my dreams would cease. Seemingly, I was scared of getting old and the responsibilities of adulthood. The burial ground of dreams awaited in adulthood.  As I got older, I just dreamt of being young forever. I shared the dreams of Mrs. Darling and Wendy. Neverland beckoned.

Contrary to my fears of adulthood my dreams survived. Tamed a bit but alive and well. Like a teenager yearning to leave his/her small town I would watch planes flying overhead wishing I was on one, going somewhere exotic, somewhere new, anywhere really. A plane, 35,000 feet in the air, sparked and symbolized my ever occurring dream to be somewhere I currently wasn't.

Sometimes dreams take a whole lot of effort to become a reality; sometimes dreams just fall into your lap. I like to think my little dream came into fruition due to a little of each. In the last six months I have been on more planes and stayed in more hotel rooms than the average citizen will in their entire life. I have spent all day and all night in a number of airports. I start my day on the west coast, eat lunch on the east coast, and return to lay my head down back on the west coast.

The world opened up to me in a way it only opens up at the sight of money, and although I feel very rich, I have no money to speak of. Naturally, there are still limitations. Fortunately, however, these limitations invite more dreams to flourish. What is a dream without a few roadblocks to overcome?

I may not dream as boldly as I use to but by god, once a dreamer, always a dreamer. I can't imagine a me without a fantastic dream of what the future might hold. Perhaps instead of dreams I should more aptly call them delusions of grandeur. The greatest of these grandiose delusions may be that I will write something worth reading. So I continue to dream and feed the fantastical dream with words from other dreamers, those that knew how to write something worth reading, those that knew how to make characters and stories come to life.

Speaking of dreams, it's that time of night where I should be dreaming in my sleep.

**I found the picture after the fact but found it fitting.