On Vibrations

Saturday night I enjoyed a local blues concert. I’ve always been drawn to blues for its concise and unfettered portrayal of the human condition, but something else has always fascinated me, too: the humble guitar. I tend to focus on guitar players during a performance, and the instrument- and those who wield it- never ceases to amaze me. So, while watching this performance, I thought.

I focused on the strings. How amazing that the simple act of plucking some carefully placed strings can produce such rhythmic sounds, causing an entire audience to tap their feet. Some closed their eyes, some swayed their bodies, but all felt the vibration of those strings enter them. All because of a little vibration.

So it is with all sound, really. Sound is made when an object is struck by an external force, disturbing its state of rest. Were it left in that resting state, no sound would be produced. Leaving that state, sound- music- is born of the resulting vibrations, which travel through space and time to reach our ears, perhaps entering into our very bodies. We hum, we sway, we tap our feet- all because of a tiny vibration.

The typical state for any creature, too, is a resting state. It is only when something comes along to disturb that state that we are capable of making music. Some of us will run marathons, some will write novels, some will grow a business, some will simply be the best damn mother in the tri-state area. What you will do, what you will be, is irrelevant. Your only task is to leave your state of rest, and make your own music.

The Freedom of Limitation

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Two nights ago, I watched Avatar for the first time. Yes, I’m very late to the party, and there’s a reason for that: I’m not a fan of science fiction, but I’ve never been able to pinpoint the reason for the aversion.

While watching Avatar, though, it hit me. The story is not awful, and the movie is entertaining, if quite predictable. What was unsettling was the lack of any ties to reality. In creating a universe so lacking in similarity to our own, there was no sense of realism, no familiarity. I’ve always found the fascination with exploring things outside the realm of possibility to be odd when our own reality remains so largely unknown. There’s so much to explore right in front of our noses.

The following morning I happened into a wonderful piece on ‘bottle writing’ in which the author describes the phenomenon of bottle episodes in television series. Bottle episodes are those in which the budget is severely limited, because a large portion of the show’s budget was spent on a previous episode. Bottle episodes are an attempt to balance the show’s budget by spending very little on locale, special effects, etc. In a bottle episode, all that remains is the ingenuity of the writer:

The thing is though, those ‘bottle episodes’ (where people are trapped in conveniently low-budget settings) are often considered the best written episodes. Why?

The first thing that is apparent is that bottle episodes are very restricted in what you can do. But rather than limit the writer, this pushes writers to come up with unusual ways to keep things interesting.

The bottle episode is one in which very severe limits are given, and often, the ingenuity that springs forth is precisely because of those limits.

Our reality is nothing if not limiting. We’re governed by the laws of physics, by societal standards, by geography, by our very minds. True creativity emerges from within the context of these limits. Science fiction simply eliminates any limitations, allowing for a new set of rules to be applied. If a creator of sci-fi needs a specific plot mechanism to make sense, he simply changes the rules to accommodate the plot. It is a much more ingenious mind that must bend his art to within the limits of an already established set of rules.

Art consists of limitation. The most beautiful part of every picture is the frame.

~ GK Chesterton

In the same vein, true accomplishment emerges from within the limits set by your reality. If you dream of running a business, you cannot simply will yourself to possess all the attributes necessary to make your endeavor a successful one. You may have the necessary business skills, but lack any marketing acumen. How much greater, then, is the success when this limitation must be overcome? Limits, when viewed in the proper light, are not restrictive; they are a source of liberation.

Maybe you’re a writer who’s become quite adept at a certain style of writing. You would like to venture into the world of comedy writing, say. Were this a sci-fi or fantasy story, perhaps a concoction could be made by which you would simply swallow the necessary ingredients to transform you into a comedic gem. In reality, though, you must simply work your ass off.

In the end, it is the limitations imposed that force us to create amazing things- be it a story, a business, a design, or a life. Learning to bend your creations to exist within reality is true creativity. Simply erasing the limits that stand in your way is best left to the realm of science fiction.

How to Escape from Purgatory

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Not long ago, I awoke from a strange and terrifying dream, the implications of which had my mind reeling. I'm lucky enough to have a friend who happens to be a psychologist, and who's well-versed in dream analysis. I told her of my dream, and asked her to be ready for a session of sorts. The result would be a fascinating journey into the depths of my fears.

The dream started in an apartment complex which closely resembled, in structure and in mood, a prison. It was a large square structure, with an open courtyard in the center, and no way out. Inside, its inhabitants formed a close-knit group, and included my daughter and her brother, her mother, her stepfather, and me.

The apartments felt more like rooms, as we all congregated outside of our own places on a regular basis, and the entire place began to take on a sort of community center feel, with everyone adopting an open-door policy even when we did gather inside of our apartments.

During one such gathering, my daughter's mother revealed to me a gut-wrenching truth: someone had violated my daughter. She pulled from her back pocket a folded magazine page, then held it up for me to see. On the page was a man of about my age, whom I had never seen before, and who, she explained, was the man responsible for the atrocities. I had to do something, she told me.

The mind-boggling begins when I pay virtually no attention to this revelation. Perhaps I don't believe her- the reason for my inaction never crystallizes in my mind. The scene, and its implications, slide to the recesses of my psyche.

Later (I've no idea of the amount of time that has passed), a few of us, including my daughter's mother and stepfather, congregate in the home of a new neighbor for a drink or two, welcoming him into our midst. The event passes without fanfare.

Still later, we're all huddled in my place when that same neighbor comes waltzing through my open door. I immediately recognize him as the man from the magazine page- the same man who had taken liberties with my daughter. Somehow, this time, I don't shrug it off. Why I had not made the connection when I was sitting in front of him, I'll never know. I recognize him now, though, and I instantly fly into a blind rage.  He has to die for what he has done, and he has to die now. I turn to grab a circular saw three paces behind me, and when I turn back to the intruder, he has transformed into the very magazine page that revealed his true identity to me. This, to me, makes no difference. In fact, I don't even register the transformation. To me, he's still the man that committed the unthinkable, and I proceed to cut him, a piece of paper, into small pieces. When he's sufficiently shredded, I feel a mixture of relief at having served justice and guilt for having killed a man.

To say the least, this is an odd sort of dream, but one that I was sure had some sort of implications which I must pay attention to. There is no greater wrong than that committed against my daughter, and if I am to serve only one role in this life, it's that of her protector. By those definitions, the implications of the dream could not be greater. The fact that the dream had occurred the very night that I had taken the kids back home after having spent the greater part of a month with them only added to the urgency. Perhaps I was failing in some way as a father. I needed to know why.

The analysis began on Thursday night. By its completion, my head would be spinning from the chasm between its true meaning and my initial concerns.

The prison (the apartment complex) was a construct of my mind- the tension between two opposing forces that had come to dominate my life. Since leaving the sales industry to pursue a career in writing, I had been living in purgatory, with both heaven and hell pulling me from either side. In this case, heaven was a life of writing and creating beautiful things for the web. Hell was returning to a stable yet meaningless job in which I spent the next twenty-five years in a miserable race for a gold watch and a meager pension. Hell had a firm grip. Why not simply do what everyone else does? Get a stable job, live my life like the rest of the world, get regular check-ups with the doctor and a regular paycheck, and slide into predictable living. Stop making people who love me worry about where all this might lead.

On the other hand, heaven was so damn alluring. I could spend my days doing what I love, be completely location-independent, contribute something to the world, and answer the call to man's greatest ambition: to be a creator in the truest sense of the word.

To get to my heaven, though, I had to embrace it fully. I had to free from the shackles of hell and devote the entirety of my energy and devotion to my heaven, the pursuit of which, it seems, cannot be half-assed.

My imprisonment in the dream was of my own construct, of my lack of ability to completely invest myself in the pursuit of my heaven. The man who needed to be killed was, in fact, this tension that had completely enveloped me. Indeed, not only did he need to be killed, but only I could kill him.

The circular saw was the tool at my disposal, whose only purpose was to destroy things. If it could speak, it would say that its greatest fear, then, is to have no connection to power. Without being plugged in, it cannot perform its sole duty.

In much the same way, if I am not plugged into the world at large via the web, I have no way to pursue my dream- that of writing and design. The web provided my opportunity, and for that to be taken away from me was unthinkable.

The guilt I felt at having killed the "man" was fleeting, as would be the guilt I would feel were I to pursue my goals. The relief at having destroyed this demon would wash over and cleanse me.

The usual state of man is one of imprisonment. Almost always, though, the shackles are attached by us, the shackled. To understand the cause of our imprisonment is a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Some will answer the call, some will shrug it off. Most will never be given the gift in the first place. We all- every one- have within us the ability to achieve great things, and to place our own definition on greatness itself. It is what is done with this gift that separates creators from consumers, great men from average. It would seem that the only way to escape purgatory is to realize you're there in the first place.

Footprints in the Snow

Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.

~ Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Since these words were written two and a half centuries ago, their meaning has been the subject of debate. Few can deny the power of the statement, but most differ in exactly where they think the true revelation lies within the sentence.

Putting aside, for now, the concept of everywhere, and taking for granted the initial premise that 'man is born free,' two meanings can emerge from the idea of man being in chains (at least, the two that I will focus on).

The enslavement of man can be external- imposed by society on an individual- or internal- imposed by the individual himself. It is the internal argument I'm interested in.

If man is born free, we can think of a life (man, woman, or beast) as an open valley, untouched by human hand. At the onset of life, then, we all stand before a great expanse of earth blanketed, as far as the eye can see, by snow of the purest and whitest form. The entire terrain, an entire life, is a blank slate. For a time, as a child, we must venture where no footsteps exist. Our actions, which will become our habits, are entirely our own. Our first steps, our first words, our first laugh, are contrivances of our uncontaminated minds. We are led by no one but our selves, taking our first steps onto the snow, standing alone.

Somewhere along the way, we encounter other footprints: our parents, our friends, our family are walking with us, just a few steps ahead, marking the way. So it is that we learn how to behave, where to go to college, proper table manners, and to brush our teeth before we go to bed. We recognize these footprints as safe. Someone has been here before, so to follow seems natural, once we see the footprints.

Ollin Morales recently wrote a guest piece for Write to Done in which he's sitting in a local coffee shop, observing a girl of about four years, and of whom he says this:

A child like the girl I see at this coffee shop still doesn’t know that there’s anything wrong with squealing with the delight when she feels like squealing with delight. She doesn’t know that there’s anything wrong with running around a coffee shop, and playing an impromptu game of hide-and-go seek with her little brother, when she feels like doing so. She doesn’t know that there are some people out there who might not like what she has to say, or might not even understand what she says—no, a child like the girl at this coffee shop just says what she wants [to] say simply because she wants to say it.

This girl has yet to see the footprints.

The story reminded me of my brother, an adult autistic, who has virtually no social filter. Consequently, he laughs at the most absurd things, and at the most inappropriate times, just because he feels like it. When we go to the movies, his distinct bellowing laugh can be heard echoing through the theater when a character on-screen has just been crushed beneath a flipped car. Usually, this is during a heart-wrenching moment, and his is the only laugh to be heard. Sometimes I tell him to keep his voice down, out of respect for others watching the movie. Other times, I let him laugh until he cries, because I simply can't bring myself to deny him the pleasure of an unfiltered belly laugh.

My brother, too, has yet to see the footprints.

David Karp, founder of Tumblr, was recently the subject of a New York Times piece documenting Tumblr's rise. In following the story, it becomes clear that Karp has a very different mindset, and very different goals in mind for Tumblr than has become the norm for a social media property.

How, then, to encourage feedback while discouraging drive-by hecklers who make you never want to post again? First, Karp notes, you can comment on someone else’s post, by reblogging it and adding your reaction. But that reaction appears on your Tumblr, not the one you’re commenting on. “So if you’re going to be a jerk, you’re looking like a jerk in your own space, and my space is still pristine,” Karp explains. This makes for a thoughtful network and encourages expression and, ultimately, creativity. “That’s how you can design to make a community more positive.”

The result is Tumblr's unique culture of creativity and positivity. Karp is now in a position to revolutionize online advertising, not by maximizing the collection of user data, which has become the standard, but by "following our hearts."

David Karp, clearly, has yet to see the footprints.

No one knows to what extent we are a product of our environment or our genes. What we do know is that, as each of us stands on an endless, pristine plain at our creation, the path gets muddied by those who have gone before us. Those footprints feel safe, and if we follow them long enough, the pristine disappears from our vision. It's still there, though. All we have to do is lift our gaze, take a deep breath, and step onto the pure white snow, where no one has stepped before.

The Limits of Optimism

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Those who know me- and now, thanks to a piece in Essays on Childhood, some who don’t- know that I once loved a girl. Few know that, many years later, I loved another.

 

I had loved her for years, but would scarcely have admitted this to myself. During the many years in which we saw nothing of each other, I dreamt of her, and was seemingly content to let that love exist only in my reverie. After all, we hadn’t spoken in years, and she may very well have found another, stronger love. I had never even made my feelings known. I confined our relationship to the recesses of my mind.

 

One particular day confirmed that decision. During a visit to my hometown, I tried to find her. I went to her childhood home, only to be met with its current occupants. She was nowhere to be found. I relented, content to visit the corners of my mind to which I had exiled her.

 

Years later, it so happened that our paths crossed. I was jubilant, of course, but I restrained myself. She was unavailable. Still, I needed her in my life, so I allowed a platonic relationship to grow.

 

During the next few months, we talked. What neither of us realized was that something was bubbling just beneath the surface of our rekindled friendship, something which would not be suppressed. Without ever having spoken the words, we knew. We simply knew that what we shared was love, in its purest form, and gradually, we both realized that it would not be pushed aside.

 

We succumbed. We let the love wash over us, and for a few months, both of us lived in a state of ecstasy. I endured the taunts and jeers and many of my peers. Having become known as the eternal bachelor because I had sworn off relationships years before, my relationships had always ended quickly and abruptly. Of course, none of this mattered anymore.

 

We agreed to move far away and start a new life together, but circumstances, as they often do, intervened. She and I were separated again. We haven’t spoken in four years.

 

I recently recounted this story to a friend. When I finished the story, her response was succinct:

 

“That’s so sad.”

 

I disagreed. I had known love- the ferocious, intimate, soul-quenching love that so many strive for- twice, and at a very young age. How many could say the same? If anything, the story was one of boundless optimism, since my tendency was to be thankful for having loved and lost.

 

Do not cry because it’s over.
Smile because it happened.

 

And so I did.

 

The day after having told this story, I made a quick trip to the grocery store. While minding my own business, relishing the way the sunlight was pouring through the branches of the trees, Bad Company’s Feel Like Makin’ Love came on the radio. I began to think of her. A particular verse struck a chord.

 

Darlin’, if I lived without you, I’d live without love.

 

Shit, I thought. That’s exactly what was happening. I had been living without love since I had been living without her.

 

For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.

 

~ Carl Sagan

 

The previous night’s concluding remark ran through my head. That’s so sad.

 

It was sad. Remarkably so, even, yet for these past few years, I had not allowed it to be sad. In my mind, I had transformed it into something wondrous. What I failed to realize was that a thing as complex, as powerful as love could be both wondrous and heart-wrenching. Had I recognized the depths of the sadness, perhaps I would not have been so quick to let her go. Perhaps I would have fought for her, for us. Instead, I had assumed that the circumstances to which we had succumbed had been insurmountable.

 

I recently read (forgive me, I don’t know where) of a ripple effect in our thinking as it concerned what we read. The conclusion was that, while we may not remember every detail of what we read, it nevertheless produces a ripple effect in our thinking, altering our perceptions forever after. So it is with everything. An experience, and our reaction to it, cannot be cast aside as a singular incident, but rather is a single thread in the tapestry of our approach to life.

 

How had the thread woven by this love affected my universe? How had my reaction?

 

Albert Camus’s The Stranger came to mind, the protagonist of which is the epitome of apathy. He feels almost nothing, and yet somehow manages to cultivate a captivating relationship with a wonderful woman. Initially, it’s difficult to see what in this story keeps the reader reading, since the main character so embodies indifference. How is that indifference not transferred to the reader? The answer, I think, is love. It is such a force that the reader cannot help but fervently wish that our subject fall deeply in love with his fiancee. It is not the presence of love in the story, but rather the faint whisper of the possibility of love that keeps us turning the page. Yes, love is that powerful.

 

Yet I had denied its force, exiling it to a remote island in the depths of my mind, using boundless optimism as an excuse to do so. We’ll meet again one day, I said, if it is meant to be.

 

In doing so, I had stripped myself of any power to change my circumstances. The conclusion of this story lies in Fate’s hands, not mine. Let the pieces fall where they may as I get on with my life.

 

Positivity is not an inherently harmful trait, of course, but the reckless use of it can easily, sneakily, distort one’s sight, leaving reality to fight for exposure in our peripheral vision. Optimism and reality can, and must, coexist, but we must be mindful of their roles, lest one or the other become the master of our Fate, leaving us to play the role of the pawn.

On Minimalism

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“As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness.”

~ Henry David Thoreau

A few years ago, I got caught up in the minimalist movement. It was an enlightening time- the world was being shown the effects of its almost criminal level of excess, in the midst of which came an idea: live with enough. Not too much, and not, as some thought, too little.

Initially, the idea revolved around one’s possessions. Too much “stuff” was likened to too much sugar intake: it clogged the mind as sugar clogged the arteries.

I identified with this movement because I’d always harbored the notion that we placed too much emphasis on stuff. Having found a huge group of like-minded people, I sought them out, taking in their thoughts on how many possessions was the optimal number. I embraced it. When I left Tampa, I left behind most everything I owned. I gave a huge amount of clothing to Goodwill, leaving myself with only those that I cherished. I didn’t buy stuff for the sake of buying stuff; I began making very conscious decisions before a purchase as to whether or not an object would improve my life in any way. If it didn’t, I left it.

This realm of the physical, by and large, is where those minimalism blogs left off. Some threw in a few words on the virtues of an uncluttered desktop every now and then, and some, running out of things to say, applied the approach to a nomadic lifestyle- “leave your job and bring only your laptop and I will show you how to live.” The movement went in a direction I was uncomfortable with. Like it or not, they were selling bulky ideas with the tenacity that Nike sells shoes, embodying the very consumerism they condemned.

“Buy my ebook for only $4.99. It contains the secrets you seek.”

And here was the rub: the ebook contained instructions to make and sell others an ebook for $4.99.

Personally, I wanted to go another direction. I still identified with minimalism- or, at least, what I took minimalism to be- but I didn’t think anyone had taken it far enough. Stopping at possessions or your hard drive was only scraping the surface of what the minimalism mantra could do. Why not apply it to thought itself?

It’s been said that the world is comprised only of thought- that our reality is simply a construct of the ideas that, collectively, make our world the thing we know it as today. Whether or not you consider that a stretch, one can’t deny the significance of thought on our reality. Yet we have such a difficult time with the thoughts running through our head at any given time, and so rarely do we attempt to understand them. Of course, mastery can only come through understanding. If you do not understand your thoughts, what chance have you of controlling them? The alternative is ugly, and staggeringly common: until you control your thoughts, they control you.

I once wrote of my tendency to oversimplify things, saying that I had come to embrace nuance as a dominant force against a black and white approach to the world. But even within this very battle lies a nuanced story: the ability to decipher which moments in life begged for a subtle, nuanced approach from those which were, indeed, a simple question of yes or no, of black or white. Cultivating this skill seems to me the pinnacle of wisdom.

In deciding how to teach your child how to handle bullies, or the dangers of hatred, or even in convincing them to clean their room requires a balanced and thoughtful approach. The same can be said for examining communication within a marriage and countless other circumstances.

Sometimes, though, the ability remove all extraneous information is critical.

When a man and a woman are in the throes of true love, it is imperativega to recognize that love is the apex of human existence. If extenuating circumstances stand in the way of that love, they must be cast aside. Man and woman in love trumps everything.

If you’ve debated whether to attend your daughter’s recital or miss it- just this once- to get ahead at work, your judgment has been clouded by information that is, in the truest sense of the word, unnecessary.

If you’ve woken in the morning to the thought that you loathe the idea of going to work, you’ve felt the effect of the forces of which I speak. A man, or woman, should love what they do. Truly, nothing else matters, for your contributions to the world will be infinitely greater when you’ve a passion for what you do.

If you’re in a loveless marriage, your efforts to escape may be hindered by any number of factors that, ultimately, don’t matter. Loveless marriages don’t have an inherent right to exist.

Many things can, and should, be distilled to their essence. Some should be carefully judged within the context of their circumstances. As minimalism cannot be said to be a one-size-fits-all proposition, neither is the application of it to thought or deed. Navigating the balance between these extremes, and knowing when each is called for, is the height of human achievement, and something to which, if we’re serious about living, we should all strive.

An Open Letter to my Daughter

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Hi, Peanut. It’s Daddy.

I’m writing a letter to you because you’re almost eight- which means that you’re seven, which means that you don’t listen to a word I say, generally speaking. I remember seven, vaguely. I was too busy trying to figure things out on my own to listen to any grown-ups, so I know what it’s like. I don’t blame you, but I’m circumventing the problem by writing a letter. When you write words down, they last, so you can keep them in your pocket and pull them out when the opportunity presents itself. So when you’re seventeen, and we have a rare moment of silence and reflection together, be prepared to hear these words.

Do you want to know the hardest thing about being a dad? It’s having little nuggets of wisdom tucked away from years of living. It’s waiting for the right time to pass on that wisdom, because there’s never a right time, so you tuck them all away. You keep those nuggets in your pocket, waiting. Waiting. Then it comes- you have a problem, a dilemma- and I know how to fix it!

Wait just a second- hold that thought- I have the answer right here. Just give me a minute to pour through- ahh! Here it is: Daddy’s going to fix it. All you have to do is listen.. I’m going to make you wiser, more socially savvy. You’re going to be a better person for having heard this, and I... Peanut! Where are you going? But I have the answer! I can help! Okay, I guess you can go outside and play. Are you sure you don’t want to hear my advice? It’s pretty epic. Okay. Yeah, maybe later.

See, I’ve been through all the problems that you’re facing. I’ve been there, and I have the gift of hindsight, so I have it all figured out. Well, I have seven-year-old stuff figured out, anyway.

I have to wait for you to ask, though. When you’re ready to listen, I’ll be here. In the meantime, here are some things that I’ve learned.

Self-awareness is the greatest quality you can look for in someone. Friend, boyfriend, colleague- it doesn’t matter what role they will play. If they have a self-aware bone in their body, it means that they are capable of change. Those are the people you want in your life. To be incapable of change is perhaps the most damning of fates, because the world around you will constantly change. Good people change with it. Great people initiate the change. Darwin (who we’ll talk about later) comes in handy here. He’s the guy that “discovered” evolution, and his words are often misconstrued into something like “only the strong survive.” What he actually said was that it’s not the strongest that survive; it’s the most adaptable to change. Surround yourself with people who are capable of change. Self-awareness is the Litmus test.

That’s really just the starting point, though, because self-awareness in and of itself does nothing. It simply means you are capable of looking at yourself in the mirror and asking a simple question:

How can I be a better person today than I was yesterday?

I think of nationalism when I think about this mirror. Nationalism- basically- is the belief that one nation is superior to another. We’re especially prone to it here in America, and it’s a very dangerous thing. Nations are comprised of people, and at birth, no person or people is better than another. The ideals a nation is founded upon may very well surpass the ideals of another, but the people here now didn’t found this country. So, a nation is only as good as the people in it, and people are so diverse, such a myriad of qualities, that no one can say that one nation is better than another.

But we do. We say it all the time. And make no mistake: there are plenty of people across the world who would vehemently disagree with us. Why? Because they can look at our body of work- what we do, what we say, how we behave- and reflect on those things objectively. We, as a country, can’t. Others look at the fact that, by many traditional measures, places like Finland, the Netherlands, and Sweden are the happiest countries in the world. Most Asian countries put us to shame when it comes to education. We are scarcely willing to admit that our attempt at being a country is an ever-evolving experiment, and we haven’t yet got it right. We are not at all a self-aware country.

I want you to model exactly the opposite behavior. You’re going to have flaws, sure- we all do. And those that truly love you will not only accept those flaws, but embrace them, so you need to recognize those flaws that are an inherent, indivisible part of you. Other stuff, though, you can change- things like always procrastinating, or not knowing how to cook, or constantly interrupting people when they speak. It’s simple, sweetheart, but it’s not easy. Be better tomorrow.

You’re going to screw up. A lot. I want you to know that that’s not only okay, but expected. Welcome, even. There is such a stigma on making mistakes, and few people ever really question it, but that stigma’s a very harmful one. No one is perfect. We all know that, but from birth we’re taught to avoid mistakes at all costs. Mistakes cost us a perfect score in school. They cost us relationships. But that’s okay. What no one tells you is that that’s the price of doing business- the price of life, and it’s a wonderful price to pay. People who screw up learn, and the only way to grow is to learn. To spend your life being afraid of screwing up is a horrible way to live. Imagine only ever eating mac and cheese because you’re afraid you’re going to screw up veal parmesan. You’re missing out.

I think about MySpace v Facebook when I think of this (I know you don’t know what MySpace is, so I’ll tell you). MySpace was the original Facebook. It was started by a guy named Tom Anderson who grew MySpace to be huge, then royally screwed up when he tried to monetize the site too early and neglected his users. He made millions, but now MySpace is the laughing stock of the web.

Mark Zuckerberg, on the other hand, invented Facebook when he was three years old (I think), and grew and grew and grew the site until it became what it is today (almost 15% of the planet uses it, and I think he plans to expand to Mars by 2015). He’s now a late 20-something billionaire who’s never known failure. The only thing he’s ever done is the biggest success story the digital world has ever witnessed.

Now, ask me who I’d trust more with the future of the Internet- the guy who screwed up big and faded into the woodwork, or the guy who’s basically been king of the world since he was eighteen? Yeah. You guessed it. Give me the guy who’s failed, thank you very much.

So don’t worry about mistakes, dear. Embrace them. Learn from them. Love them, even.

I suppose that’s all for now, but I may write to you some more later. And remember- whenever you’re willing to listen, Daddy’s here to impart some wisdom. It’s right here in my pocket. In the meantime, have fun being a kid, and when you scrape your knee, or someone takes your iPod on the bus, or you get caught shoveling your dinner into the trash can, don’t worry. Daddy will be here to clean it all up.

I will always be right here.

Your singing/ drawing/ dancing/ laughing/ eating/ living/ silly...

Daddy