There has always been honorable intent behind my drive to write, but the truth of the matter is I started largely because I liked the idea of being a writer. More specifically: the idea of being recognized and respected as one. This inspiration fueled me for longer than I’d like to admit (but I’m glad for it now—it got me going).

Through my twenties I couldn’t finish anything, because I refused to finish anything that wasn’t a masterpiece. A hamster on a wheel, I worked and reworked sentences to death. Compounding the problem was that I occasionally shared bits and pieces of my work; and hearing from others what I knew myself (that my work was just “pretty good,” if that) was devastating.

Over the last few years, until a few months ago, I’d “shelved” my writing endeavors “to focus on family and career.” In lieu of writing—and inspired by the birth of my daughter—I made more concerted efforts to be the best human being I can be, for my girls, for me, and for everyone in my life. This led me to the Dali Lama’s teachings, great discussions with my wife, and a lot of self-reflection.

Among what I confirmed during my sabbatical from writing was that my struggles were rooted in misguided inspiration and unrealistic expectations. Writing, or embarking on any endeavor, for renown, is probably not a good idea—and, at least for me, agonizing and impossible. Writing to give life and clarity to ideas that you can share with others—now that’s worthwhile. That can lead to profound human connection, which is key to finding happiness.

As I’ve begun making adjustments in all arenas of life, “setting the table” for contentment (as opposed to notoriety or material success), my itch to write has returned. My biggest obstacles have been starting (a.k.a. overcoming the inertia of not having written for years), and finding the time!

Though lack of time remains an issue, I started this blog. I still work at snail’s pace to ensure my best work (I’m no longer suppressed by the weight of expectation, but I am still anal retentive) but I’ve actually finished a few things. Nothing that will make me rich and famous, but honest thoughts, currency to connect with my brethren.

Do not worry about what others think of you. Focus on the similarities between you and whomever’s judgment causes you anxiety. Focus on the positive aspects of this person. Recognize their shell of insecurity—that their appearance is like a callous that can be smoothed and softened by human connection, by your sincere, empathetic attentions. Be compassionate, and you will lead your friend toward acceptance and happiness. 

Be a cheerleader for the people in your life. When someone’s misfortune leads to a feeling of triumph, remind yourself that you are not truly happy. Immediately find a way to do something nice for this individual or to help or defend him or her in any way you can.

JD Salinger summed up why writing is so hard (at least for me) when he said that immediately after publishing a book he felt like he was walking around town with his pants around his ankles. I agree with that metaphor and then some: writing creatively for others is not just leaving the house with no pants on; it’s going onstage with a spotlight on your small penis and proclaiming “I have a small cock!”

Over the years, I’ve tried to increase the size of my writing schlong (with the hope that it would: 1) make me comfortable sharing my work, 2) allow me to stop obsessing over it, and 3) enable me to finish a thing or two)… to no avail. I tried everything. I went and got my MFA in writing*. I revisited grammar books from grade school. I kept a journal. I wrote (grinded through) several papers and short stories (none of which I can bring myself to say are finished). And I read every word E.B. White ever wrote**. The end result of all this engagement with the craft? I write wicked good emails and sound work-related documents… but when it comes to writing creatively for others, my writing schlong might even be smaller than it was before. 

I try to resist coming to conclusions because (unlike what Opera would tell you and we would all like to believe) almost nothing is conclusive. But if I had to sum things up for a fellow writer cursed with a small schlong, here is what I’d say: 1) you can’t increase the size of your writing schlong any more than you can your actual schlong; 2) the key to writing with a small schlong is probably the same as having sex with a small schlong: don’t think about your size. Just go have fun and make that baby. That’s what it’s all about.

These days when I write, I try hard to stay focused on the message/purpose behind whatever it is I’m working on. If I see an opportunity to give a reader a little pleasure or impress him or her, fine, maybe I’ll take it, but I know that if I worry too much about that I’ll never accomplish much—if anything—in the sac, and there won’t be any amusement for anyone, even if I do get my rocks off, and that just sucks.

*Don’t do this unless you are wealthy and/or are fortunate enough to have been born with a large writing schlong.

**Do it.

We are not free, and freedom does not exist in an absolute sense. Everyone—even the rich person who doesn’t have to work—is subject to certain rules, laws, and circumstances. Accept this reality and you will take a step toward becoming as free as you can be, freer from suffering, and closer to contentment.

Throughout my adolescence, I prayed a lot. While compassion inspired some of my youthful prayers, most of them were rooted in a sense of obligation and in the half-hope half-belief that I would be rewarded with good fortune. I spent about 5 - 10 minutes per night, for at least 5 years straight, reciting the Lord’s Prayer followed by a freestyle that usually went something like this:

Dear God, thank you for everything you do for me. Thank you for making me handsome and good at sports and for helping me get good grades. God, I will continue to work really hard in school and help the people who get made fun of in school if you would please help me in my upcoming game against Read Middle School. Please help me score 27 points. Please help me so and so, and so and so, and blah, blah, blah and blah, blah, blah. And please, God, help me grow to be at least 6’2”, so that I can get a scholarship and then become a professional athlete, which will help me become famous so that I can help poor people in Africa and wherever they may be by giving them money and setting a positive example. Amen.

Recently I did the math to find that I wasted about 6.3 days of my life on this type of self-centered babbling and begging in the name of “nightly prayers.”

A good 10 years after my last prayer to the white man with a white beard, I picked up The Art of Happiness by the Dali Lama and I learned for the first time the real power and purpose of prayer.

According to his Holiness, prayers are daily reminders we say to ourselves to stay on track toward living the life we want to live. Being the people we want to be. And, ultimately, finding the contentment that is waiting for each and everyone of us.

The types of prayer the Dali Lama recites and recommends are those rooted in compassion and helping others. Why? Because helping others is the key ingredient to living a fulfilling life. 

For the last year or so, I’ve been thinking up and writing my own prayers (most if not all of those that weren’t consciously stolen from the Dali Lama were at least inspired by his philosophies on compassion and on the importance of maintaining a calm state of mind). As a result of this exercise, I’m becoming a happier person.

From now on, whenever I post a picture to this blog, I will include one of my prayers (a.k.a. reminders) in the caption.

I lied to a homeless guy today. It wasn’t the first time lying to the homeless. I told the man I had no money on me when I did have a little. I had no more than 10 bucks or so, but likely enough to make this man really happy—to make him forget his woes, if only for a moment.

I’ve lit up homeless people before by giving them a dollar or less. Their eyes widen and their “thank yous” are often heartfelt, I’ve noticed. When homeless folks say thanks to me for a little change, I often sense their gratitude for being acknowledged as human beings. The satisfaction I feel in giving a little pocket change and acknowledgment to a homeless person is always tempered by guilt for not giving more.

I rarely give homeless folks more than a dollar—I am not “rolling in the dough” and direct alms to the homeless has never been in the budget. Most of the time when I encounter someone asking for money on the streets I do what I did today: I mumble “sorry, I have nothing” and/or avoid eye contact and keep walking.

Sometimes when I leave a beggar hanging, I don’t stop simply because I hate taking out my wallet in front of them. It’s not that I’m afraid they’ll try to steal my wallet, it’s that I’m embarrassed and ashamed for not giving them more of the money in it. I may not be wealthy, but I know that any homeless person could use the small amount of money in my wallet more than me. 

I’ve just decided: Now that I’m traveling to the city more often and encountering homeless people on a regular basis, I will create a budget of 5 or so dollars per month to give to the unfortunate folks on the streets. I’ll give away the money in quarters, because $.25 - $.50 per person won’t break the bank and will enable me to reach several people.

It’ll be nice to always have pocket change at the ready so that I can stop lying to, and start acknowledging, the homeless on a more consistent basis. They are people, after all, and I probably can’t even begin to imagine the depths of their despair. God, they must be so sad. We’ve got to help these people.

Thank goodness for photography. The process is so much less painful than writing: line up a shot and press a magic button. Usually a little photo editing, but unlike writing you don’t have to fuss for too long. Photography is a great outlet for a neurotic “writer” like me.

Photography helps channel some of that creative energy, which is so much harder to release via the written word—but it does have it’s limitations. It doesn’t allow for the same depth of engagement, communication, and connection with others that good writing can achieve.

I love photography and it comes easier for me than writing, but writing is still more important.

This pic is Charlotte beach in Charlotte, VT. Lake Champlain and NY State across the way. Angry skies on Halloween of ‘09.