The year the world became better

New Year’s Eve is when the optimists come out to play, with our resolutions and fresh goals and hopes and prayers.

Maybe 1941 will be the year when nations stop rattling swords at each other and sue for peace.

Maybe 1968 will be the year when people stop thinking skin color determines superiority or inferiority.

Maybe 1990 will be the year when we are finally free to beat our swords into plowshares.

Maybe 2020 will be the year when authoritarians grow tired of their games and trust in freedom.

Maybe 2023 will be the year when … humanity changes its very nature?

The pessimists who call themselves realists are not surprised when humans’ basest nature rears its head again and the resolutions and fresh goals and hopes and prayers clatter to the dirt.

As I wrote the other day, we hang our heads and realize there is no peace on Earth, despite what the bells on Christmas Day say — but there is more peace than there once was. Americans and Japanese and British and Germans work and play together. People with different skin colors marry, and their families are welcomed with love and acceptance. Around the world, every day, day by day, billions upon trillions of human interactions are performed peacefully, and we are always appalled when violence intervenes. Even the authoritarians are constantly frustrated by the independent thinkers who refuse to kowtow and do things their way.

Maybe 2022 was not the year when everything changed — but some things changed.

Inch by inch, bird by bird, soul by soul, not all at once but slowly, the world has become a better place than it was one, 10, 50, and 100 years ago.

Maybe 2023 will be the year we finally accept that and are grateful.

Or maybe the calendar doesn’t matter, and you and I should simply do what we can to make this day better than yesterday was, day by day.

Happy New Year, friends.

100/26,031

The 2 imperatives for writing success

Oh, this is just infuriating.

There I was, out in the back yard, and a thought occurred to me. “Oh, that’s an interesting thought, I could write about that,” I said to myself, but when I went back inside all I could remember is that I had had an interesting thought that could have been a blog post or short article of some kind.

Later in the day, out in the front yard, I had another interesting thought. I’m positive that it was a different interesting thought, not the original one, because I said to myself, “Oh right, now I remember what I was thinking this morning, and now I have this thought. Great! Now I’ve got two good ideas to write about.”

You know why I’m infuriated, of course: Once back inside, I forgot both ideas.

When you write, you have two imperatives. The first is that you carry something to write with at all times — pen and notepad, a smartphone, anything. The second is that when a thought occurs to you that may be worth writing down, write it down.

It’s really that simple. To be a writer, you must write. And to write, you must have something to write with.

Carry implements of writing, and use them. It’s not rocket science. No calculus or other advanced mathematics is required. You just need to be ready to write when you think of something worth writing.

Somehow, however, when I was out there in the back yard, I was not carrying a pen or a notepad. And mere hours later, having supposedly learned my lesson, I was out there in the front yard without my pen or notepad.

These are not the first two times I have learned this lesson. Time and again, I have lost a thought because I couldn’t write it down right away

I know, I just know, that the next time I invoke the Muse, she will laugh a very non-Musical bellylaugh and, once she catches her breath, she will sputter, “You have got to be fricking kidding me.”

Years from now, if I’m lucky, in the dead of night, the Muse may whisper one or both of those thoughts in my ear again. If she does, and I am not carrying something to write with, I will deserve whatever fate befalls me next.

A few ramblings about time and such

My body rebelled against me the other day. It … well, never mind the details. I had to lie down on the couch at the day job until my head cleared a bit, and I had to fight to stay awake driving home, and once home I peeled off my coat and collapsed into the bed, where I slept and slept and slept until it was time to go back to work.

This was very disconcerting, of course, because I had things to do and places to go — not to mention writings to write — not to mention, well, all sorts of things I could mention. It’s just so darn inconvenient to get sick.

Fortunately, it appears to have been a 24-hour flu — maybe 36 or 48 hours — because as I type this I am feeling much better, perhaps a little weak but that could just as much be because I haven’t felt much like eating for 24 or 36 or 48 hours and oh my god I’m turning into an old man who talks about his health issues.

Having been born in 1953, the year 2023 has been in the back of my mind for quite some time. When one turns 70, there’s no beating about any bushes anymore, you’re officially elderly, and isn’t that just bizarre? I remember singing songs I’d made up in the back of the 1954 Studebaker to entertain (or irritate?) my brothers. I remember watching the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show and the first episode of some new science fiction show called Star Trek and hearing “Good Vibrations” on the radio and my concept of who The Beach Boys were exploding.

I am 10 years old. I am 19 and falling in love. I am 22 and starting my first full-time job. I am 44 and falling in love again. I am 48, calling a reporter who worked for me and hearing her say expectantly, “Grandpa?” and we giggled because no, sorry, I’m not Grandpa — but does my voice sound grandfatherly now? No, I insist, I am 10 years old. (I was 10 when I discovered Spider-Man and the world changed.)

I remember the first time I thought of a memory and realized it was 50 years ago, and now it’s more than 60. You don’t fully understand how long a half-century is until you’ve lived it and you start comparing what life was like 50 years ago with now.

They say life goes by in an instant, but nope, it slogs along day by day. Come on, 50 years ago was a very long time, and as much as I loved being in college and all those friends, that was a very long time ago. One year ago is a long time ago. And I’ve been privileged to have almost 70 of these years.

So when your body rebels against you after 69-plus years, you sit up and take notice and maybe worry a little bit. And when you’re feeling much more like yourself 24 or 36 or 48 hours later, you sigh in relief and get on with living.

It’s almost 2023. Stop me if you’ve heard this one, because I know I’ve said it before: I remember reading Nineteen Eighty-Four and being alarmed but grateful because 1984 was so far in the future. I remember watching 2001: A Space Odyssey and wondering whether that far-flung year would really look like that. It never occurred to me what it would be like when people born in 2001 became adults.

Where am I going with this? You know, that’s a question it helps to ask every day. Mostly I’m feeling better, thanks.