Day: March 24, 2015

I am a better teacher than I am today. I am a better writer than I am today. I am the person I choose to be and I am proud of that man. I believe in who I can be as much as I did yesterday and tomorrow.

Part of my new morning ritual is to write and to read before I turn to television. I noticed that while in NYC I only watched TV twice. Sure, there were shows I could’ve caught but there was no need. There is so much excitement and entertainment in Gotham that the TV becomes a secondary thing. Not so in the suburbs where outside all is quiet. It is easy to fall into the routine of watching TV on the couch and remaining there indefinitely. There are certainly enough distracting shows to keep me going–for days at a time. I suppose this is where the term binge watching comes from. I feel like cutting the cord will help me in this regard, though it means telling my kids that they can no longer ‘record’ their favorite shows. Still, they too need to develop better rituals.

For me it starts with writing and reading–putting my mind in that space where I am reminded of the power of creativity. After comes the hard work. I intend to be more devotional to my job moving forward. I am fortunate enough to work in academia and, for the most part, not to be in a place where politics rule the day. It is still about the students and the learning and giving them what they deserve. For me it is largely about delivering a experience that is engaging, enjoyable, and academically fulfilling. I haven’t hit the stride I found at my last college before that was disrupted by administrative duties. I recognize I can’t get that stride back but instead have to find a new stride that matches who I am now and how I’ve evolved my understanding of teaching and learning. It is however the essence of the goal that mattes most. I am a better teacher than I am today. 

Better at most things is the trajectory I prefer to have. I feel like when a person tops out they have nothing to do but get worse or step away. I see the getting worse aspect as much in teaching as I do in sports. I’m seeing it more and more in writing, and I recognize that some of the writers guilty of it see that in themselves. You can tell by the afterwords or the shift in the bio and often even the tone of the books. It isn’t a matter of burnout but instead flameout. The fuel is less or different or not there at all. I’m not at that point. I am a better writer than I am today.

All of this becomes about choice and dedication. I am willing to put in the work and pain needed to be that guy. It is a choice and a difficult one to stick to, because giving up is easy. The TV is waiting for me outside this door and it is so darn appealing. I’m not ready to give in though. I’m still developing, still trying, and still accepting who I am each step of the journey. I am the person I choose to be and I am proud of that man. I believe in who I can be as much as I did yesterday and tomorrow.

Every trip to New York is different. Every trip is a homecoming but home is different. I am different. As I move out of my thirties and into my forties I am starting to notice the wear and tear on my body and soul; the scars that I’ll bear with me to the grave. These are the marks and experiences that make me who I am, but sometimes the weight of doubt and regret manifests physically and in that fashion (or any other truly) is too much to bear.

Yes, I wish I’d done things differently. Turned left instead of right. Loved more; deeper. Written more. Believed. However, the truth is that the exact conditions of yesterday created the me who I love today. Reveling in that love and treating myself to the belief of that lasting love is the best gift I could ever receive. That being said, I want to make some proclamations.

I am a better teacher than I am today. I am a better writer than I am today. I am the person I choose to be and I am proud of that man. I believe in who I can be as much as I did yesterday and tomorrow.

The above is my new mantra. It is not a resolution for the new year, new life, or new age plateau. It is a reflection of the person I am evolving into and the best version of myself. It is a challenge to always get better and stronger and work harder and carry a piece of that New York grind with me at all times.

Afternoon snow painted a lazy haze over the city. I was due to meet my friends on Bleeker shortly, but from where I was on 135th and fifth, it felt like I’d have them waiting a long time. Across the Hudson was the 4/5 train station which presented a faster path to where I needed to be. Getting across the hudson happens only by boat or bridge. The closest bridge waited behind a gauntlet of traffic and blustery winter wind, rain, and snow. In the world of street numbers the journey was only from 135th to 138 and Grad Councourse, a route if by land should be nothing, but the bridge and highway traffic meant it was much more.

I’ve never been ashamed of being a sci-fi writer or a fantasy writer. This doesn’t mean that people haven’t tried to make me feel that way. The majority of writers I am or have been face to face with over the years are literary fiction authors (with a gentle dusting of YA and urban poetry. Many subscribe to the real in a way that is dismissive of the unreal. I’ve written in the past about how science fiction and even fantasy are still talking about the core ideas of what it means to be a human being and deal with difficult yet everyday situations. The fact that a guy like me likes to slather assault rifles and fire-breathing dragons on top of that should only add to the complexity of the prose. Rare is the sci-fi author who slips past the gauntlet of derision and self-doubt to become accepted on both sides of the writing spectrum—both as a commercial artist who ‘writes the sci fi’ and literary juggernaut whose work is to be considered canon for all of those who want to learn about what it means to write.

As the gulf between NY publishing and smaller MFA print runs grows, I find myself less interested in debating the legitimacy of my work and more concerned with producing writing I can be proud of. Recently I produced work I was not proud of. I allowed the pallor of distraction to overcome me and take from me the joy of what I love to do most. It was a dark stain on the project and a lesson to be remembered. Writing is a joy, but dealing with the life around writing is a chore. Writing is a joy, but the politics of writing suck. Writing is a joy yet putting your butt in that chair is the hardest thing you’ll do everyday.

As I moved through New York today it occurred to me that all my references are dated. This flashed through my mind last year when I showed people the city, but this year I feel more present in the city, having time to actually enjoy it and see the changes. Not everything is grand. Little facets of my home environment have changed just enough to be noticeable and make this home world seem as though I’ve been dropped into a parallel version of Harlem. Little things like the position of the couch in the living room of my childhood home, the position of Yankee Stadium on the horizon, fences lining the rooftops of buildings that never needed fences before.

With subtle change comes the more dramatic. The cultural energy of the place has changed and in some ways faded as the people who were part of the Harlem of my youth pass on and out of the city and often out of life itself to be replaced by a series of outsiders looking to make Harlem their own and create their own history here with seemingly little regard for what came before. The sociologist in me calls it gentrification. The businessman in me calls it eminent domain—though all that is being torn down are the families and history that shaped this place. The shells of the buildings remain intact with redrawn interiors cut free of rent control and thrust into a world of pricey Manhattan real estate. As a kid I took pride in knowing I could stroll through Harlem at night. Nowadays that action has no deeper meaning than being able to withstand the winter chill.

Times and places change. People change. The worlds of childhood look smaller and more distant in the lens of the present. I cling to the memories of where I group up as I cling to the memory of who and what that helped to shape me into.