Author: J. Thorp

The Second Third, Week 14: Not Giving a Damn

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Blogger’s Note: Yes, yes…most of you know, but occasionally I get a new visitor. So in case you’re that guy or gal, the whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

My father’s machinist-mentor Chuck used to have a slogan hanging on the wall of his shop, and to this day, Dad continues to quote it: Old age and treachery will overcome youth and skill. As you might guess, not being particularly skillful, I spent most of my youth thoroughly overcome by the treacherous old fellow.

Dad genuinely has different abilities and interests than me — that’s part of it — not to mention vastly more experience. But as I’ve become a father myself and watched my own children gaze in wide wonder at my courage, skill, knowledge, and strength, I find things that used to be a struggle come easier to me. In this respect, life in my Second Third is vastly more enjoyable that the previous 35 years — and I believe I know why.

See, when I was a kid, I was worried about million different things: screwing up, failing, disappointing myself, letting others down, looking stupid, getting hurt, hurting someone else, you name it. As the young samurai says in The Last Samurai, “Too many mind.” I was so wound up about about everything, so lacking in self-confidence, that I couldn’t accomplish anything without a messing up. My worries were often self-fulfilling prophecies.

My friend Father Tyler made a similar observation when he turned 30 last month: “[T]he pride which so hobbled my willingness to try then has been tempered. At thirty (especially as a professed celibate) it is much easier to not give a damn about how foolish one appears.”

I am not a professed celibate, but I can relate. I’m still not graceful, not mechanically inclined, etc. — but I can do many things I never used to simply because I’m no longer so tightly wound about them. Because I’m more secure in myself than I used to be, I can work within my limitations, ask questions, and be more patient — and it pays off more often than not.* In my Second Third, many** of the things that used to stress me and hold me back simply don’t concern me anymore. And as Fr. Tyler so aptly concluded, “To not give a damn, I am coming to understand, is one of the richest graces of full-fledged adulthood.”
________

*Of course, being 6’3″ and about 240 helps, too, at least in terms of striking fear in children, and intimidation, like treachery, goes a long way in overcoming youthful prowess. And if I force it — and I do from time to time — I still fall flat.

**Not quite all…but I’m working on it.

The Second Third, Week 13 (Belated): Overcommit

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

So I should technically be writing Week 14 of this series, which proved to be far more interesting in my head than it appears on screen. This is last week’s entry — exactly a week late and, ironically enough, about the tendency I have to overcommit myself.

Several natural but unfortunate tendencies contribute to my inclination to promise more than I can deliver:

  • First, I tend toward optimism: I can do it, things will work out, stars will align, etc.
  • Second, I’m horrible at estimating the time a thing will take.
  • Third, I tend to expand into the space I’m given, leaving no room for error or delay.
  • Fourth, I like what I like, and when I like it, I want to be involved. I say yes more than I ought, and don’t like to back down. Enthusiasm + pride + a touch of the martyr = unrealistic deadlines and self-imposed misery.
  • Fifth, I’m no manager. I like to do more than to delegate and direct, and filling someone in on a project (and then relinquishing control) nearly always seems waaaaay more difficult and time-consuming that just doing it myself.

Multiply these tendencies across multiple projects and decisions per day, and you can see A) why I’m a week late on this post and have blogged almost nothing besides these “weekly” Second Third posts since I promised to do them; B) why, when I look more than a few hours ahead on any given day, I feel nauseous; and C) why I’ve yet to teach my children any number of things I already knew how to do when I was their age.

This cannot stand. No is such a clear and easy word; I must pronounce it more frequently. I can’t blow my Second Third on ill-considered obligations I take on myself.

The Second Third, Week 12 (Belated): Get It In Writing

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

Since high school at least — maybe even prior to that — I’ve wanted to write, if not for a living, than at least for kicks and a few extra bucks. I went to college thinking I wanted to teach biology, but a year of chemistry and lab alongside my first English class (a creative non-fiction course) tweaked my thinking. I felt like I could write, felt like I should write…and by sophomore year, I figured I would write if I could find a way to make a go of it.

A poetry professor, when he learned I hoped to be a writer, advised that I not major in English (Yale didn’t have journalism), insisting that those who hire writers would see someone who know composition or literature and little else. He said I should choose a major that permitted me to take a little bit of everything, so I would emerge a well-rounded thinker. I chose anthropology, focused on human evolution, and took science courses, history courses, you name it.

I graduated and began looking for work as a writer. Everyone seemed to want experience, or an English or Journalism degree. I applied for obit writer in the Rapid City Journal. No dice. I sold housewares and luggage at Younkers department store in Sioux Falls, and began to think about teaching again. We learned we were pregnant, moved to Michigan, and I took temporary work installing fixtures in a new Kaybee Toys store outside Detroit. The new manager saw potential and offered me full-time work when it opened. Instead we moved in with my folks and kept looking.

Finally I got an interview with The Pioneer, a six-day-a-week newspaper where I grew up. The editor told me later they were looking for someone with experience or a journalism major, but wanted to know what a Yale grad was doing applying to their little paper. I showed them some writing samples, and they agreed to “test” me — have me come to a city commission meeting with the editor and write a story, not for publication, of course; her story would be for paper. We went to the meeting; I wrote the story — not as fast as she would’ve liked, and I didn’t know AP Style, but the story was solid. She actually agreed to run it and pay me as a freelancer for several weeks while the reporter I was replacing wound down his remaining time at the paper.

I’ve worked as a writer ever since, which is a victory. In my time at The Pioneer, I served as a reporter, editorial writer, columnist, copy editor, night editor/paginator, weekly editor, assistant managing editor, and occasional photographer. (We all took our own photos.) After that, I went to work for Ferris State University, initially as a three-quarter-time, multi-purpose writer: alumni magazine articles, fundraising pieces, letters…until my boss decided, after a couple of rewrites by her marketing firm, that the new Ferris view book needed a different voice, relatively young but well informed. She turned the entire piece over to me, an amazing amount of unwarranted trust. It came off well, and they hired me as full-time media relations manager. From there: corporate marketing, writing sales material, direct-mail copy, and web content for FedEx, Cargill, Sherwin Williams, and RSM McGladrey. Then back to campus at the University of Minnesota, first as a “strategic writer” (a multipurpose position like my first stop at Ferris) and ever since, as presidential communications officer and speechwriter. I’ve even done a little freelancing in my free time, for neighborhood newspapers and international martial arts publications. I’m a kung fu writer!

It’s been a good career, encompassing nearly every kind of professional writing you can imagine outside of fiction and poetry. Unfortunately, there lies the problem.

You see, I’ve dabbled in poetry for years, and have more than one novel started…but as a father of four with a full-time job, I barely find time enough to spend with my wife, let alone hole up again and write fiction. In this regard, in fact, I sometimes wish I’d taken the Kaybee job: At the end of a long day writing, the last thing I want to come home to is more writing. Get up, battle traffic, write, review, revise, review, revise, battle traffic, eat, crash, repeat. My kids used to say I was a writer, until they asked me to show them something I’ve written. It wasn’t a book. They were underwhelmed.

Grrr.

In my Second Third, however, things are looking up. My infinitely patient writer friends continue to prod and cajole me. And I’ve lined up a new position, working on a few bigger publishing projects. I’m looking at a much more flexible schedule in the short term and the ability to work remotely. Less time on the road and in the office. Less time shopping content to multiple reviewers. More time to read and write — and the ability to carve out blocks of time to work on my own stuff.

Y’know how smokers are told to never quit quitting. Rest assured I’ll never stop starting — but it’s about time I finished, don’t you think?

Groundhog Day

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

Blogger’s Note: My Second Third post for this week is delayed tonight in favor of a movie post that is long overdue. WARNING: This could be chock full of spoilers!

In February 1993, when the movie Groundhog Day was released, February 2 was an obscure observance, and Punxsutawney Phil was an obscure rodent attraction of which I, myself, had never heard. At that time Roger Ebert gave the film credit as a somewhat thoughtful comedy, and gave it a fairly favorable rating (3 out of 4 stars on his current web site). Twelve years later, Ebert wrote a new review of the film, adding it to his growing list of Great Movies. In the 2005 review, he says, “Certainly I underrated it in my original review; I enjoyed it so easily that I was seduced into cheerful moderation. But there are a few films, and this is one of them, that burrow into our memories and become reference points. When you find yourself needing the phrase This is like “Groundhog Day” to explain how you feel, a movie has accomplished something.”

My own experience with the film was similar. The first time I saw it, I liked it well enough: I laughed throughout and remembered the premise and specific scenes particularly well. Now, for me, there aren’t a lot of comedies I’ll go back to watch again and again (unless I’m channel-surfing and happen to catch one)…but for whatever reason, Groundhog Day struck me as worth a repeat viewing. In the years since, I’ve seen it multiple times and have grown to love the movie. For a long time, I couldn’t figure out why.

Ebert’s second review catches a glimpse of the movie’s greatness. He cites an article in a British newspaper claiming that Groundhog Day is one of the most spiritual movies of all time.

A bit much? Think about it: We have a man in Bill Murray who is completely self-absorbed and cares about no one except insofar as they serve his interests. One morning he wakes up to find himself stuck: same alarm, same room, same routine, same job. One day, same as the next.

The premise is that he is literally stuck in time and space: He wakes up in the same place on same minute of the same day of the same month of the same year. But re-read the previous paragraph. Who hasn’t gone through a similar stretch in life?

He goes through stages: shock, anger, denial. Then he comes to the conclusion that he might as well make the most of it. He eats what he wants, acts how he wants, behaves outrageously. He gathers information “one day” and uses it the “next,” to seduce an attractive women, to rob an armored car. The rules don’t apply to him. He sees himself as godlike, free to do whatever he wants.

I’ve heard multiple priests and theology buffs insist that true freedom isn’t doing whatever you want. True freedom has at least some boundaries, which protect us and enable us be secure in ourselves and so to act for the good of others. True freedom is the ability to choose to do right, as best we can.

Groundhog Day hits this nail on the head. Murray’s character is not made happy by his power, his gluttony and greed, or his conquests. He is lonely, bitter, unloved, still stuck in the same rut, and increasingly desperate. Finally he tries to kill himself…only to find himself waking up in the same spot again and again. Suicide is, literally, not the answer. He slowly discovers he wants to be loved.

The movie could have wrapped itself up with a nice moralizing bow right there, but it doesn’t. He begins to try to live each “new” day rightly. He fails, and tries again. He uses what he learns about the people he encounters to help them instead of use them. At one point, he even seems to have set the bar too high, trying to live the perfect day, to do everything right, to help everyone and eliminate any trace of suffering in the little town. In this case he fails simply because that’s not how the world works. Even when he’s doing Good Work, he’s still not God.

He gets closer and closer to love, messes up, loses it, and gets up in the morning to make another run. He tries to make each tomorrow a little better than today.

Re-read the previous paragraph. Don’t know about you, but that sounds familiar to me, too.

The Second Third, Week 11: Number-Crunched

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The whole idea behind these “Second Third” posts can be found here.

First, let me say that when I launched this Second Thirds thing, it wasn’t supposed to become the only thing I’m writing here. That’s not the intent, and I will get better about posting more.

On a somewhat related point, ever been so busy you get nauseous if you look more than a few hours ahead? Most of today I couldn’t remember what day of the week it was; I’m still not sure what day of the month it is; and I told people in my noon meetings that we needed to get started so I could get to my 11 o’clock appointment on time.

Which brings me to the point here: I’m terrible with numbers.

I was a good student in school, and math was no exception. Of course, my junior-high math teacher Mr. Thurston pointed out from time to time that my sister did better on timed tests than I did. But that’s no surprise, really: speed has never been a strength of mine, to the point that, when I was firming up my schedule for senior year of high school, I chose Physics over Typing — never mind my writing aspirations.

I’m a Word Guy, but now I fear it’s become a crutch. Jodi balances the checkbook and pays the bills. Jodi manages the calendar and orders the food. What do I do? I write eight-page Christmas letters. I haven’t had an actual math class since high school — I skated by with a couple of lab science courses. I’m a Word Guy.

The thing is, now I’m clueless. It’s not doing math that’s the problem anymore; I can’t remember numbers. Even ballpark numbers. Oh, I’m still the man of the house, and can throw a figure out there like it’s the Gospel, but increasingly my number are not grounded in anything resembling fact.

Case in point: last weekend, a friend asked how many Christmas trees we sold at the KC Christmas Tree Lot. Without hesitation, I said, “We bought 700, and sold all but 10 — we made $5,000 after expenses.”

He’s a math guy. He said, “You sold almost 700 trees, and you only cleared $5,000 profit?” Then he politely added, “Well, with expenses, maybe…”

I thought a moment. I could tell that he could tell the math didn’t work. Where had 700 come from? I racked my brain. No idea. If we had sold 700 trees to make $5,000, we would have made just…not even…not very dang much per tree.

“Uh,” I said, “I’m wrong. We didn’t have 700 trees. I have no idea where that number came from.”

I looked it up later. Closer to 250 trees.

Anyone can forget a number. But I swear, my father-in-law can look at cattle jogging by and estimate the worth of a herd based on the latest price per pound. My dad once solved an engineering problem his mentor was convinced would force him to learn trig, apparently by using arithmetic and common sense. My kids can estimate better than I can, as can Jodi.

I wracked my brain on the way home from work tonight and realized I remember how to do fractions and percents. But it took some doing. I need to exercise my numerical mind. In my Second Third, I should probably take over the checkbook or something. But don’t tell Jodi.