As a young lad of limited means and struggling to find his way in the world, it did not take long for me to realize that I was slightly below average in all the ways that really mattered. Before my 21st birthday I had already swallowed the bitter pill of disappointment as a professional athlete and my first foray into the business world of retail sales was less than stellar. Still to be explored and developed was a sense of inquisitiveness and a creative nature that I really did not understand, let alone appreciate.
Shy and inhibited, I suppressed personal opinions and outward displays of ambition because I felt everyone else was smarter and more experienced than me. I held back...Deep emotions of seething volcano proportions percolated just under the surface. I tended to float through those unfulfilled early years of discovery, probably my own worst enemy.
It was with this less-than-desirable cloud hovering over me that I found myself fatefully and almost miraculously being hired as an untrained $45-a-week newspaper cub reporter while still a virtual newlywed with growing responsibilities and associated life distractions. Unrealized at the time, I was given an opportunity to step outside of myself in ways that I never knew possible. I cut my teeth as a general assignment reporter covering the local police and court beats. The go-to-guy for obituaries and at the call of an editor for everything from retirements to special community events in the predominantly "Railroad City" of St. Thomas, ON. I was required to extend myself in areas not altogether familiar or comfortable for me. Following the who, what, where and when rule-of-thumb for news item leads and the inverted pyramid formula of story structure, my job was to present the facts available to me -- nothing more, nothing less. No editorializing, no personal opinions -- a perfect scenario for an unassuming journalism fledgling who was years away from finding his own voice as a writer and life experience commentator.
It was as a sports writer that I would eventually be introduced to the art of colorful prose designed to impress faithful sports page readers following their favorite teams through the medium of print. I learned to let my copy flow as though I was having a conversation with the reader and it made writing so much easier and less laborious.
In retrospect, my imagination was was always ignited by stories of people, real or fictional, whose actions were worthy of admiration or amazement. Whether being regaled with the feats of famous national sports, religious or cultural figures, or hearing about ordinary people performing extraordinary deeds, I loved a good tale.
As I advanced from the role of editorship into the more lucrative field of professional public relations, that passion for a good story was put to profitable use as I developed public awareness programs and worked to obtain positive media exposure for my companies and business associations. An interesting story — conveyed in a single news announcement or a multiphase publicity campaign — became a proven method for breaking through the communication clatter and ensuring that strategic messages reached their intended audiences. I knew that in a way I was prostituting myself but, what the heck, I was bringing home an all-important pay cheque in order to keep the wolf from my family's door.
Out of vocational necessity, I always wrote with other people (employers and audiences) foremost in mind. That tendency even carried over to a period in retirement when I served as a well-intentioned lay preacher, delivering messages that I thought church congregations wanted to hear, often going so far as to compromise what I truly believed in my heart of hearts. I struggled with the conscience of a false profit and against the expressionless faces of people in the pews who (I felt) must have seen through me. In the end, I walked away with the feeling that as a minister of "the word and sacrament," I somehow fell short, misunderstood and unappreciated, not taken sufficiently serious enough. Discretion dictates that I not elaborate on why I chose not to follow through on the "call" I had prayed for so fervently.
It may have been my imagination, but to me resentment toward my expressed beliefs and deepest thoughts was culpable in some familiar quarters, as if unwarranted coming from someone like me with a perceived lack of qualifications and the unmitigated gall to impose on the minds of others.
Perhaps my expectations have always been a bit too unrealistic and consequently self-debilitating. Then again, maybe I haven't quite known what to expect. Be that as it may, in retrospect I came to understand that my deepest fear was not that I was inadequate. My deepest fear was that I was powerful beyond measure and that I may not take full advantage of it. Generally, it is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, appealing, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are we not to be? We are all children of God and playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around us. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same. Idealistically, as we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others; or so I wanted to believe.
I say ideally, because it seems to me that every time I let my "little light shine" and exercised the glory and power within me, I got myself into trouble for some strange reason or another. Talk about a living and breathing contradiction. I'll never understand it, only to divulge a resultant paranoia and a once-bitten, twice-shy philosophy.
Almost a decade ago I launched this Wrights Lane blog site with the belief that I was capable of delivering inspiring human interest material based on my own life experiences and discoveries. If something was on my mind, I was convinced that the same thoughts and questions were was surely on other people's minds too. It was my fervent hope that I could use my differences to make a difference, a personal mission of sorts. In truth, after approximately 1,000 individual posts, I have no way of gauging the impact of that initial motivation and sense of mission. I can only speculate.
I have gained some followers and most certainly lost a few along the way. That is simply a fact of communications life. I amassed almost unbelievable views or hits on my Internet posts -- the majority anonymously and from sources unfamiliar to me (the mystery of Google); sought after, meaningful feedback being virtually non-existent and leading me to believe one of two things -- either readers were in total agreement with me or, given my frame of mind on a particular day, that my offerings were not worthy of response.
All I know is that I kept coming back with the courage of my convictions in the only way I knew how, because that is what writers do! I stood up for principles and continually fought against biases and misconceptions because I wanted to set the record (as I saw it) straight. On the rare occasion I was told that I had hit the nail on the head, other times I was accused of pontification. Generally, the label "funny guy" may well have applied -- a frequent sentiment that always amused me.
I have now reached a stage in life where I no longer have the warrior's impulse to keep on coming back and, know what?...The world continues to turn on it's axis, with or without humble input from me.
...In the end, I cannot think of a single soul who really gives a damn any way! I fear that it may have been ever thus.
I bow out much the same unfulfilled writer as that young newspaper reporter of 60 years ago. Sadly, I would have preferred a much different legacy from all the time, blood, sweat, tears and idealistic convictions exhausted sitting in front of the only tools of my trade -- a computer keyboard and formerly a trusty old hand-bomber typewriter. Both now destined to gather dust as I increasingly forget as readily as I am forgotten.
If only I could have been slightly better than average when the world still had potential to be my oyster -- and made more sense to me than it does presently.
...I coulda bin a contenda!!!
I say ideally, because it seems to me that every time I let my "little light shine" and exercised the glory and power within me, I got myself into trouble for some strange reason or another. Talk about a living and breathing contradiction. I'll never understand it, only to divulge a resultant paranoia and a once-bitten, twice-shy philosophy.
Almost a decade ago I launched this Wrights Lane blog site with the belief that I was capable of delivering inspiring human interest material based on my own life experiences and discoveries. If something was on my mind, I was convinced that the same thoughts and questions were was surely on other people's minds too. It was my fervent hope that I could use my differences to make a difference, a personal mission of sorts. In truth, after approximately 1,000 individual posts, I have no way of gauging the impact of that initial motivation and sense of mission. I can only speculate.
I have gained some followers and most certainly lost a few along the way. That is simply a fact of communications life. I amassed almost unbelievable views or hits on my Internet posts -- the majority anonymously and from sources unfamiliar to me (the mystery of Google); sought after, meaningful feedback being virtually non-existent and leading me to believe one of two things -- either readers were in total agreement with me or, given my frame of mind on a particular day, that my offerings were not worthy of response.
All I know is that I kept coming back with the courage of my convictions in the only way I knew how, because that is what writers do! I stood up for principles and continually fought against biases and misconceptions because I wanted to set the record (as I saw it) straight. On the rare occasion I was told that I had hit the nail on the head, other times I was accused of pontification. Generally, the label "funny guy" may well have applied -- a frequent sentiment that always amused me.
I have now reached a stage in life where I no longer have the warrior's impulse to keep on coming back and, know what?...The world continues to turn on it's axis, with or without humble input from me.
...In the end, I cannot think of a single soul who really gives a damn any way! I fear that it may have been ever thus.
I bow out much the same unfulfilled writer as that young newspaper reporter of 60 years ago. Sadly, I would have preferred a much different legacy from all the time, blood, sweat, tears and idealistic convictions exhausted sitting in front of the only tools of my trade -- a computer keyboard and formerly a trusty old hand-bomber typewriter. Both now destined to gather dust as I increasingly forget as readily as I am forgotten.
If only I could have been slightly better than average when the world still had potential to be my oyster -- and made more sense to me than it does presently.
...I coulda bin a contenda!!!
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