Ran across an interesting question on Twitter a few weeks ago: Writers, have you ever faced harsh criticism?

I must admit that question strikes a chord with me. Oh, not necessarily from something that happened here at Middle Zone Musings or anything. I’m happy to report that, since I started writing here at the Zone, there have only been a couple of instances when someone decided to, er, let me have it.

What was it about, you ask? Well, suffice it to say, said criticism had absolutely nothing to do with my ability to write, if you get my meanin’. Thankfully, things have pretty much always been fairly even-keeled around here. I suppose, in a way, it’s a welcome vindication of my goal that the Zone appeal to as many folks as possible.

Anyhoo, getting’ back to the subject…

Lookin’ a mite further back, though, I remember all those English teachers I faced from grade school on up through college. But I suppose we all wrestled with them as we grew up. Par for the course, right? So, on the whole, I’d say I’ve done OK.

Ah, but what about undeserved criticism vis a vis your writing ability? Now that’s a critter of a different hue, wouldn’t ya say? I remember this one, um, professor (imagine the word forced out through clenched teeth – but don’t worry; I’m over it now) from my first year in college…

Firm Foundation

Now ya gotta understand, y’all; I started reading at an early age and loved it. Back when I was a kid (that’s human, not goat), while everyone else was outside playing in the sandbox, you’d more than likely find me over in a quiet corner somewhere reading a book.

Even back then science fiction was my favorite (and still is, for that matter). Not that one type of reading matter is better than any other type, mind you, but I’ve always believed reading sci-fi stories is what helped jump start a broad technical vocabulary, not to mention help point me towards my current career in engineering. (At least that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.)

Well, once I grasped the fundamentals of writing (somewhere along about High School) I always got good grades on writing assignments. Plus, along the way I discovered writing was sorta fun – especially when I was allowed to let loose my imagination, y’know?

Suffice it to say, then, that I was fairly confident in my ability to string words together in a way that not only managed to say what I wanted to them to say, but I could say it in a way that would satisfy pretty much anyone. Until, as I said, I started college.

Rude Awakening

My first-year encounter with college was quite an adjustment, I’ll tell ya! Not only was it my first time living away from home, but it wasn’t long before I ran smack dab into a particularly hard truth about college life. The fact is, the word school took on a whole new meaning for me. See, up until then, going to school wasn’t really a choice, y’know? I mean, I had to go whether I liked it or not.

I quickly discovered, however, that now I was surrounded by folks who had actually chosen to be there. (Imagine that!) And I’m not exaggerating in the least when I say that put a whole ‘nuther hump on the camel, if you get my meanin’.

Even the teachers (oops, professors) were different. Although most of them genuinely seemed to like what they were doing, there were a few who sorta, er, stood out from the herd – both good and bad. And I’ll tell ya; nobody was worse than… Dr. Dead! (flash of lighting, crack of thunder, sound of terrified scream)

Dr. Dead

Now, at first blush you may be thinkin’ to yerself, Hey, that’s a pretty harsh moniker to give a college professor! Where’s the respect, Bubba? But hear me out, my friends; hear me out as I relate to you what happened on that fateful first day in English 101.

Here’s the scene: It’s your typical college classroom, complete with room-spanning blackboard at the front (yes, we used blackboards back then – and please, no snide “age” comments from the peanut gallery, thank you very much) along with a wooden teacher’s desk that had obviously seen better days. About 25 of us were seated in metal and/or wooden student’s desks, back packs at our feet, freshly-scrubbed faces eager and ready for our first exposure to, y’know, what we laughingly refer to as “higher eddicashun” (that’s “education” for you upper-crust types).

Anyway, once we all got situated, an old man tottered in and headed for the desk at the front. (Yes, he really “tottered”. Seriously.) Upon reaching the desk, he turned around, sat down on the edge and crossed his legs like a talk show host. Then he crossed his arms as well, all the while giving us the once-over with his steely gaze. (For you “body language” gurus: what would that posture tell you?) Then:

“Good morning; my name is (name redacted to protect, er, me),” he began in his thin, reedy voice. “This is English 101, and for those of you who may have heard this is a tough class… well, they are quite correct.”

He continued in this vein for a few minutes, and I could see the other students’ eyes reflecting the same sense of impending doom I was beginning to feel. After a while, he began to talk about his “style”, and that’s when it started getting a mite, um, surreal.

“Now some of you may consider yourselves to be good, or even excellent at your use of the English language.” He paused to survey the room, making sure he had all our attention, then – well, that’s when he lowered the ol’ boom on us. “I want you to understand this fact: I will be the sole judge of your ability to write. It doesn’t matter what you think; my opinion is the only one that matters here. I am sixty-four and one-half years old, and only six months from retirement, so we’re going to do this class my way, and my way only!”

There was more, but I’m tellin’ ya, at this point it was so quiet a dropped pin woulda sounded like a 30-car pileup; I don’t think any of us even dared breathe for a few moments. I mean, what the heck was this? It was after that first class when I overheard a couple of other students use the name, “Dr. Dead”. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for that little gem to stick.

He Lived Up To His Name

I’ll tell ya, when he told us his way was the only way, he wasn’t kidding! Our first paper was due the very next class (and for those of you who don’t know, English 101 is pretty much ALL writing “papers”) and I knew it was going to either make or break me as far as this class was concerned. Although I admit my confidence was a mite shaken, at that point I wasn’t too worried. I mean, I had already proven I was pretty good at it, right? (He said, nervously.)

Well, I turned my paper in on time (of course). When we met next, I was running a bit late, so by the time I arrived Dr. Dead was already handing out our graded papers. As he delivered each one I tried to see if there were any clues as to the results.

Yup, sure enough. It was kinda like watchin’ wallpaper fade (albeit a mite faster). Each face reflected the same sequence of reactions. First, there was a widening of the eyes in surprise (when they saw their grade), followed by a silent snort of disgust (or its equivalent) as they immediately compared it with their neighbor’s grades. Finally, there was a rolling of the eyes as they realized EVERYONE was as shocked as they were.

I was therefore not too surprised that my own grade was, er, less than stellar; I mean, I’d already seen the movie, if you follow me. Even so, I couldn’t help myself; as soon as I got mine, well, my eyes widened, I snorted – ah, you get the picture, right?

But it wasn’t that the grade starin’ me in the face was, to put it mildly, less that what I expected. I mean, that was bad enough. No, it was the fact that, right up there at the top of the page, there was a big, fat “F”! And in red ink, no less!

What the heck was this!?! I mean, I put my heart and soul into that paper – just so he would know I was better than the average writer, y’know? And this was my reward!? To say I was shocked is something of an understatement.

From Bad To Worse

Well, the class continued along those lines for pretty much the rest of the semester. And on every single paper, no matter what I did, I got almost the same results. (Although I did manage to pull out a “D” on one. I partied for a week.)

To say I was frustrated would be a major insult to the word “frustrated”, I’m tellin’ ya! I had conferences with the man several times, and each time he merely repeated his initial statement: his way or nothing. As the semester ground on, I even met with the Dean of the English Department to complain. Unsurprisingly, I got no help there.

I finally ended up dropping the class in hopes I could retake it with a different professor the next semester. And, although I passed it that second time, suffice it to say that by then my love of writing had pretty much been snuffed out like Smokey the Bear stomping out an unattended campfire in the woods.

I’ll tell ya, folks; I knew when I was beaten. As I look back on it now, I’m sure this little episode went a long way towards squelching my secret boyhood dream to eventually become a successful, rich and famous (not to mention loved by fans everywhere) sci-fi author. Sad, but true. (Not to lessen my own personal responsibility for makin’ the choice, mind you.) But to tell you the truth, I never wrote anything for fun again – until I took up blogging back in 2006.

A Hard Lesson

Well I’m not ashamed to admit I learned a hard lesson from this, y’all, and sad to say, it don’t necessarily paint ol’ yours truly in the best of lights, if you get my meanin’. My only defense, as pitiful as it may be, is that I was younger (and presumably more, well, let’s tell it like it was: stupid) than I am now.

The hard fact is, I’m the one who allowed that professor to dictate how I felt about my own writing – and about myself. In fact, I’ll go ever farther and say this: whether or not I was a good writer was irrelevant to the fact that I let someone else tell me how to feel about myself!

Friends, listen to an old cowboy and learn somethin’, won’t ya? Don’t do that!

As I’ve discovered the hard way, how we feel about ourselves is the one thing we’re pretty much in control of in this life, y’know? This incident, and others like it, taught me how easy it is to take someone else’s self-esteem down a notch or two.

And it doesn’t stop there. No, this sort of thing can have long-term consequences as well. It took quite a few years before I was again willing to risk having someone else read anything I wrote – in my case, 34 years. Yeesh, what a waste! But not to worry, I think I’ve finally gotten over it.

In fact, nowadays it’s gotten to where it’s kinda hard to shut me up. But then, that’s a dog of a different spot, wouldn’t ya say?

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Photo credit: F, by duncan

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Been to a museum lately? One thing they’ll generally have a lot of: some of the world’s greatest paintings. As a matter of fact, I’ve even been privileged enough to have laid my very own two eyes on one or two of ‘em, too. Van Gogh… Monet… DaVinci… Yep; I’ve been blessed, I’ll tell ya.

Having said that, though, I’d like you to take a good look, folks, at what I consider to be my very favorite painting of all time. At the moment it’s currently hanging on a wall in my house. But don’t rush for your “World’s Greatest Paintings” Almanac; you won’t find it listed.

Like I said, it’s my favorite. Not because it was painted by a world-renowned artist. Naw, the fellow who painted this (a French painter named Maurice Legendre) isn’t all that well-known, in spite of having been in the art world for a considerable number of years. And no, not because it’s worth a fortune, either. Although … if it was, I could skip step #2 of my plan to make a million dollars! (Step #1: Find a job that pays a million dollars an hour. Step #2: Work 1 hour.*)

No, this painting is my favorite because it’s a souvenir – and a reminder – of the trip my family and I made to Europe back in 1970. (And… just because I really like it.)

See, my dad, who was an engineer at the time for a large global chemical company, managed to wrangle a 9-month-long field assignment to Europe, so naturally he did what anybody else would do if they could – turned it into an extended family vacation for the rest of us! (And lemme just add here, “Way to go, Dad!”)

At least, it was a vacation for us – he had to work. (And yes, my sister and I did have to attend school for the remainder of the semester. But hey, it was, y’know, in Europe!)

Not Quite Reality

Funny thing about paintings, though. No matter how realistic they look, they just aren’t, well, real, y’know? I mean, go to any museum in the world and check out all those portraits. I defy you to find one single pimple on any face. I mean, c’mon; what’re the odds?

No, paintings don’t necessarily reflect reality (although some artists certainly give it a good run for the money). Heck, these days even photographs can be manipulated such that quite often my first thought when I see a particularly unusual one is, “I wonder if it’s been photoshopped?” Hey, am I right?

Anyhoo, this painting was created right there on the bank of the Seine river, just beyond those trees on the right. How do I know that? Well, I remember watching as the artist finished it with swift, sure strokes. (At least, that’s how I remember it, anyway.) The scene is the famous Pont Alexandre III (which is French for “The Bridge Named for Alexander the 3^rd”) as depicted on a rather gray, yet surprisingly luminous, rainy afternoon. (Or is it morning? Hrm…)

But here’s the thing. If you were to actually stand at the painting’s point of view, it wouldn’t quite look like what you see here. As a matter of fact, there’s quite a lot in this painting that, as the sayin’ goes, “ain’t quite right”.

What’s wrong with it, you say? Well, for instance…

The day this was painted – it wasn’t actually raining at all! Nope; it was a beautiful bright and sunny summer day. Oh, and if you check photos of the real Alexander III bridge (you can find plenty on the Internet), the Seine River actually appears to be quite a bit wider than depicted here (although I suppose that could’ve been an artifact of perspective). And, according to my memory (which admittedly ain’t what it used to be – *sigh*), you won’t see the Eiffel Tower from that spot, either.

Oh yeah, and one more thing: see that sailing ship? In order to get a ship that size into that amazingly picturesque position, they would have had to remove every mast on it. Not that you couldn’t; but it would be a huge pain in the, er, nether regions! Even so, I’m not sure you could fit the doggone thing under the bridges – most of ‘em are pretty low to the water. (See that tugboat lookin’ thing next to it? That’s how low boats have to be to fit under most of the bridges across the Seine.)

A License To…

So what’s my point, you ask? Well other than the one on the top of my head, my point is this: so what?

Lemme put it this way. You know what a license is, don’cha? It’s when you get official, recognized permission to do something – as in a hunting license, a driver’s license, or a “license to kill” a la James Bond. But here we’re talkin’ about something a mite “less” tangible: a creative license.

See, painters, writers, inventors – pretty much everyone who’s ever done anything creative in their lives (and yes, that includes when you were a kid and you tried to explain to mom that it was actually your little brother – or was it the dog? – who broke that lamp and not you) all have this wonderful opportunity before them to not only express something inside of them, but to express it in their own uniquely special way. After all, the artist who painted this scene had the real thing there right in front of him. But, by adding his own interpretation to the canvas, made it something unique. It’s not a photograph, after all (and yes, you can be amazingly creative with those, too), it’s an expression.

Speaking on behalf of writers everywhere, I think it’s safe to say we all do something similar. (And no, I’m not admitting to, um, embellishing all the stories you read here at the Zone. C’mon; even if it were true, do you think I’d ever admit it?) [Note from the Proprietor: Just kidding, folks! They’re all true – to the best of my memory, anyway. Honest.]

What I’m sayin’ is, it’s not what we say that makes it unique, interesting, boring, horrifying, humorous or (fill in appropriate descriptive here) – although that certainly plays an important part. Nope; the thing that makes folks keep comin’ back for more is the way we say what we want to say.

It’s like having your own license – a creative license!

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* OK, I freely admit it: I borrowed my “how to make a million dollars” plan from one of Steve Martin’s comedy routines. But that doesn’t make it any less brilliant. I’m just sayin’.

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I woke up rather suddenly from a particularly vivid dream the other night. Oh, not to worry – it wasn’t the screamin’ jeebies or the cold sweats sort of a dream (although come to think of it, one of those might have been more entertaining.) No, I just woke up.

In it, I was a cowboy (surprise!) running a herd of cattle across an empty desert plain, hot sun beating down from a cloudless lid of bright blue sky. I remember thinking (in the dream, that is), There’s no food or water for these critters out here. How are we gonna make it? This is a really stupid idea.

Once awakened, you know what happened, right? Yep; the ol’ little gray cells assumed it was a genuine situation that had to be figured out, and immediately stampeded off into the night like that dreamland herd o’ heifers. That’s ridiculous, I found myself thinking. Nobody herds cattle across a desert. There’s no food. There’s no water. How could they make it? Maybe they could… uh… er… hrm… That’s a really stupid idea… and then round the circle we went again, over and over and… over.

Needless to say, this went on for some time. Eventually, though, a thought occurred to me as if it was the final nail in the coffin: It’s impossible.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve run across some impossible things every now and then. And I’d venture to say that there ain’t nothin’ more daunting, lemme tell ya! It’s like… well, what the heck, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume you already know what that’s like.

Yep; impossible things surround us all the time, don’t they? A dream job, the perfect mate, an eventual golden retirement – they’re all around us. Are they really impossible? Well – maybe; maybe not. But I’ll bet you any amount you care to name that if you don’t at least try then it sure as heck won’t happen.

But what about those things that truly are impossible. Things like, for instance, my dream to finally be a… spaceman? (Sadly, it looks like the future I read about when I was a kid won’t happen soon enough for little ol’ me. Sigh.)

Not The Dream, But The Journey

Well, the thing is, even if impossible to actually achieve, some dreams are worth aiming for anyway. Why? Because sometimes, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey that counts, y’know? By that I mean that in the effort of preparing for that so-called “impossible dream”, you might just find yourself becoming a better person!

Even the indomitable Apostle Paul (yeah, that guy who wrote a huge chunk of the New Testament in the Christian Bible) faced the same thing. In fact, he compared life to running in a race:

You know that in a race all the runners run, but only one runner gets the prize. So run like that. Run to win! All who compete in the games use strict training. (1 Corinthians 9:24-25)

See, even though only one person can actually win a race, in order to compete, all who run must improve themselves. In that way, the journey becomes its own reward.

Not a bad lesson for life, wouldn’t ya say?

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Photo: A Cow, by publicenergy

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‘Way back at the turn of the century (wow, that sounds like a long time ago, doesn’t it?), I spent four months clean on the other side of the world (from where I usually hang out, that is). I was working on a project in the city of Hsin-Chu, Taiwan. Just so ya know, it’s about an hour’s driving distance southwest of Taipei, situated near the western coast. It was my first time to visit what we in the U.S. call the Far East, and I really enjoyed to the adventure.

Unlike field assignments in the U.S., instead of providing a rental car, the company had assigned me a car and driver to take care of the daily commute from my hotel to the work site. I quickly discovered two wonderful benefits about this arrangement.

First, having a professional in the driver’s seat not only saved me considerable aggravation, it probably saved my life more than once. Man, I thought I knew what wild traffic was like! After all, I’ve been around, y’know? It didn’t take me long, though, to realize I was ‘waaay safer takin’ a back seat on this one, if ya know what I mean.

Second, I soon realized what most mass transit commuters discover for themselves: it’s kinda nice havin’ a little extra free time on your hands while someone else worries about the traffic. And bein’ a bona-fide stranger in a strange land, so to speak, literally everything outside my window was new and interesting. I’m tellin’ ya, Bubba, I could get used to that!

But let’s get back to that first point for bit.

The Joy of Rush Hour

Like I said, rush-hour traffic in Hsin-Chu is pretty bad (and from what I understand, pretty much every other major city in Taiwan, especially Taipei). Like any other city that’s experienced rapid growth in a short time, the number of cars on the road tends to far outstrip the capacity of aforementioned roads. Fact of life, I guess.

On the other hand, one of the benefits of having a professional driver meant we rarely took a main road anywhere. This guy knew every back way, driveway, and byway (not to mention every footpath, sidewalk and mule trail) in the city! I found myself really looking forward to my commute because after all, you never knew what undiscovered path we’d end up on. It was actually a lot of fun.

I mean, we’d go zooming down what here at home we’d call a sidewalk, but to them it was a regular street, with tiny little houses on each side of us, so close I could easily touch them as we zinged past. Every one of ‘em had doors that opened onto the street, and I often wondered what would happen if some poor unsuspecting homeowner decided at the wrong moment to step outside.

Sheesh, it was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. Especially when, every now and then, we’d meet a car coming the opposite way. It was a real challenge trying to find a spot big enough so one or the other car could pass and be on their way.

I was always impressed with my driver’s manner, too. No matter what we ran across (well, not literally ran across, you understand), he was the picture of imperturbability. I mean, nothing flapped this guy. Whether it was a case of squeezing by a truckload of ducks (likely not something you’d see too often in the U.S., I’ll bet!) or zooming down a narrow dirt road, dodging the occasional cyclist or two, the guy never once cracked an expression. It was amazing!

Well… except there was this one time…

Grand Prix, Here We Come!

For some reason, on this one morning he had a particularly difficult time finding a route to work that hadn’t been reduced to a parking lot by the omnipresent rush-hour congestion. My driver had to basically pull out every trick in the book, so to speak, just to keep us going in the right direction.

While on one slow car-filled stretch of road, he suddenly turned into what I had at first taken for someone’s driveway. For one crazy moment I thought he might be actually about to commit the cardinal sin of, y’know, turning around (sound of horrified scream) and backtrack for a bit. But no, as soon as we made the turn, I could immediately see it was simply another one of those exceedingly narrow back streets the city is laced with.

I guess the long unimpeded straightaway gave him a bit of inspiration, because as the car thrummed with applied power I saw him breathe deeply and sortof settle into his seat. Fortunately, no unsuspecting homeowners decided to step out their front door and meet their maker in a rather sudden and unexpected way! Unfortunately, the street was a mite narrower than the usual cow path and, just to make things interesting, was also spotted with occasional thick wooden light poles (you know, the kind with street lights and electrical wires strung between them).

I don’t mind tellin’ ya friends, this was a little unusual, even for us!

What was it like, you ask? Well, lemme put it this way: I’ll bet there’s still an imprint in that car’s armrest from where my fingers crunched down on it. At the same time, my stomach tightened up, sweat started seeping outta my brow, and just for good measure, had I been a swearin’ man I’da sworn my butt cheeks clenched onto that seat and held on dear life!

Yeah, it was sorta like that.

Hey, you wanna talk about a wild ride! We zoomed down that lane like we were running the Grand Prix, dodging houses, cyclists and little old grandmas (not to mention the occasional dog) like they were standing still! I don’t mind tellin’ ya, this was a tad more excitement than I had signed up for!

After a minute or two, though, I was able to accept the fact that we probably weren’t going to die just yet and that the driver had things well in hand. So, with a major effort of will, I began to relax a bit (although I don’t think I, er, let go of the seat, if you get my meanin’).

Then, just when I was (almost) able to breathe normally again – that’s when it happened.

As we zipped through one of the particularly narrow spots between a stone wall on the right and one of those previously mentioned light poles on the left, I heard a sudden sharp thump as our left mirror didn’t – quite – make it past that pole! Understand now; we never slowed down at all.

From the back seat, I could see my driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror, and to this day I’ll never forget his reaction. I looked at him, and he looked at me. Then, without cracking an expression of any kind, he briefly raised an eyebrow. Then, of course, his face immediately went back to its normal imperturbable expression as we kept on going. Yep, that was the extent of his visible emotion!

I’ll tell ya, folks, I’ve never forget that moment. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. And come to think of it, it was… inspirational!

I mean, here was a guy who was good – really good – at what he does. It reminded me of the old Pony Express – nothing was gonna stop this guy from delivering the goods (even if the “goods” was little ol’ me). He knew how to focus on the job at hand and get it done!

So next time you find yourself facing a challenging goal, take a lesson from my former driver. Focus on your goal and fasten your seatbelt. Then take a deep breath and clench those cheeks, Bubba…

Then floor it!

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