Story start 08/31/2018

As he watched the house burn in the early morning light, he let out a sigh of relief. The chill from the air hurt his lungs, but he could not have cared less. The deed was done. The bodies that were presently being roasted in that conflagration had paid the ultimate price and bought him a new life. One far away from here. One that would never feel the endless chill of a Soviet winter. One where no one would ever know his real name. 

Thirty-six hours later, he was staring down the barrel of a double barrel shotgun and sweating more from the heat and humidity than from the situation. This would not be the first time that a man filled with envy and rage would threaten to end his life. Nor would it be the last. 

168 hours he had just crossed the border into America. The land of the free, supposedly. A land governed by Lyndon Baines Johnson. An individual who he personally had put into office. This was not where he was supposed to be. This was the last place that he was supposed to be. In his thirty-two years of life, this was the first time that circumstances were working against him and putting him in a place that he felt truly afraid. 

Not because of who he was or what he had done. But those who knew. And those who knew that they could use him again. In the land of the free, this was the place where he had the least amount of liberty. And, unless he could make it from Miami to Canada within the next twelve hours, he was truly and completely trapped. 

Even a lion gets ensnared in a trap that he could not see. 

Kill Your Idols.

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“Be yourself — not your idea of what you think somebody else’s idea of yourself should be.” — Henry David Thoreau

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your inner voice. And most importantly, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.” — Steve Jobs

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In an attempt to start getting back into the habit of reading, I set a goal earlier this year to read 50 books by the end of the year. I am currently sitting at 28 books, which puts me at three books behind schedule. I’ve read everything from the Harry Potter series (the fourth or fifth time reading it) and The Litigators by John Grisham to True Grit by Charles Portis and Start With Why by Simon Sinek. Certain books, like The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Good Omens by Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman, and Little Children by Tom Perrotta have been on my “must read” stack for years. Others, like Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson and Unfu*k Yourself by Gary John Bishop I tried out on a whim and found myself being moved — even to tears. 

I read The Martian by Andy Weir and immediately re-read it because I loved it so much. I hated Get Your Sh*t Together by Sarah Knight that I not only couldn’t finish it —but I also wrote a scathing review on both Goodreads and Audible. It’s also the only time that I’ve returned a book on Audible. I marked that one as complete, because I’ll finish reading it by the end of the year. Just to be fully done with it.

And, in case you are wondering, I’m currently reading four books at the same time: Crazy Love by Francis Chan, Uncommon Type by Tom Hanks, The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, and The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2002 edited by Dave Eggers.

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What does this have to do with anything? Well, I firmly believe that, in order to be a good writer, one must also be an avid reader. Reading a large selection of books is just as, if not more so, important as writing on a frequent basis. Yet, in doing so, you start to compare yourself to those who make a living writing. Not just compare, but also become envious of them. Which opens the door to doubting yourself and your skill. 

You start building idols to books that are beautifully written. You raise upon pedestals those who have made it. The self inflicted golden calves begin to cast shadows upon your craft. You begin the transition of “I bet I could write that” to “I’ll never be that good.”

You sacrifice yourself before you even give yourself a chance to improve. Which leads to you snuffing out pieces of work that could potentially overshadow the very pieces of literature that you have begun to idolize.

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So, here I am. I stand before you and I give you full permission to kill your idols. I dare you to become better than they are. I challenge you to become the artist that you once envisioned you could be. 

To quote the cliche: “There is only one you.” There is only one person who can tell the stories that you can. Am I saying that you shouldn’t work to perfect your craft? Of course not! Practice, lots and lots and lots, and lots, of practice is what makes perfect. Study those who have made it. Learn from them. Grow to become LIKE them. But fully acknowledge that you could never be them. Not that that’s a bad thing. You have stories in you that would make them jealous — if only you sat down and wrote them. 

Embrace your failures and grow from them. Learn from the masters, but do not envy them. Burn your idols; but recognize why you had them in the first place. 

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Read. I encourage you to read. Let the words of others set you on the path to creating your own. But never think that you are less because you have not told their stories. Yours will be infinitely more interesting if you just let it be.