Oh no! I’m old! I’m no longer what my father used to call a spring chicken. I’m the crusty dirty lazy dog that’s been sent to the farm. The horse that’s been set free in a pasture of long greasy grass and weeds with no fence so I keep walking and walking and walking eventually ending up in a far, far away place with giant cartoon characters from the James Cameron film Avatar.
My writing has been called… (Large horn sound effects like those featured at the Renaissance Festival) cynical.
Radio station GM Rick once called my creative flow melancholy—it drove me insane for six months. I felt like Barry Manilow had just teamed up with Michael Bolton to write the perfect love song about Paul Simon.
Being on the Barnes and Noble book tour for nearly three years I was introduced to hundreds of closet writers who used every reason in the dictionary as to why they wouldn’t take that single leap of faith and get published. The top down fall…words written by a passerby.
The most deadly language on Mother Earth is a review and thanks to modern day technology linked to Social Networking its only getting worse—to the point that singer/songwriter John Mayer has officially dubbed texting nothing more than a cheap date and he wants out.
The infamous Peter Max once told me, “Once it’s out…it no longer belongs to you.”
Think about that while digesting what Paul Stanley of Kiss told me, “If they see a blue elephant in one of my paintings I congratulate them on seeing the vision perfectly.”
We spend way too much time worrying about what other people think. My wife jokingly told me the other day, “At your funeral I’ll say only four words that best represent everything you are and have been for forty seven years…how did that sound?”
I’m sending my latest book to film producer/actor Tyler Perry—not because I need his approval but to fulfill the origin of the dream…I set out to write a book and in the end it would be sent to one of my biggest inspirations this journey. The note inside will be spell checked a billion times saying nothing more than, “I don’t expect you to read this. I will probably never hear from you. I’m ok with that because I did what I was supposed to.”
This week..f.rom out of nowhere I was given his address and spoke to his secretary. Now its up to me to keep walking.
In the Vein of Gold from Julia Cameron she tries to teach creative people how to display their art so they can one day learn to ignore criticism. Obviously she’s never been an on-air radio talent where every breath you take someone is not only watching but listening. It’s their job to fine tune you to the point of harmony with all other mediums connected and it hurts like the bad cramps you get after a fired up bowl of chili from the Acropolis Café at the Arboretum.
Does it affect me to read about how cynical these chapters I write come across? I find myself more concerned with the writer in you. How would your efforts to bring communication from an invisible place to a world of reality be taken if what was shared resembled an arrow shot 500 mph through the air?
I’ve learned to walk away…I’m the kid who was challenged to a fight at school only to show up on the outside of the circle wanting to know who was going to fight. When they turn to point me out, the childish laugh becomes contagious enough to turn a spoiled bologna sandwich into a perfectly designed plate of chips and salsa.
Cynical….according to Dictionary.com it means:
1.
like or characteristic of a cynic; distrusting or disparaging the motives of others.
2.
showing contempt for accepted standards of honesty or morality by one's actions, esp. by actions that exploit the scruples of others.
3.
bitterly or sneeringly distrustful, contemptuous, or pessimistic.
4.
(initial capital letter ) cynic (def. 5).
I am quite guilty of taking an honest regular man’s approach to discussing why a square peg doesn’t fit into a round hole. Being an optimistic pessimist means the purpose behind such a display might inspire another like minded child to locate a thinner square peg to place in that round hole. Once it goes through…there is victory for all.
Isn’t that what Broadcasters do? When radio wouldn’t let me into their news room, I dreamed of being the television personality who went undercover to seize the truth behind why Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard was bare.
Don’t ever walk into an art gallery with me—I drive management crazy because I put my nose within a hair of the canvas studying the brushstrokes of the soul that delivered it. There’s a story to be told and three minutes before birth the higher power said, “Change of plans…I need you to fill in as the cynical.” By the time I looked up the word the old fashioned way Mom was looking deep into my eyes begging me to be something other than a farmer in Montana.
Julia says it best, “You have the right to write.”
Staying true to fiction and or nonfiction depends on your flavor—either side of the fence, there will always be critics and somehow you’ve got to have the courage to step between the vibrations and make it a great day. Maybe that’s why grandfathers have no problem passing gas in the middle of a packed house—everybody does it…why not turn your voice into an art.
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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