It’s Saturday morning, and I’m sitting at the Tri-Rail station, waiting for the first train of the day. I’m writing this on my cell phone, though I came within a jackrabbit’s breadth* of bringing my mini laptop back with me yesterday afternoon. I even packed it in my backpack. But then I decided that its added weight might give me trouble, since I was planning to walk back to the house from the train station. I also had planned to bring one or two other things that might add to the usual weight of the backpack.
It turns out, though, that not only was I too tired/lazy to walk, but I also forgot to bring the few things for which I had foregone bringing the laptop. So, that was entirely pointless, and now, here I am “typing” on my “smartphone”, waiting for the train to bring me most of the way to the office on a Saturday during what is technically a holiday weekend (in the US). And, of course, I’ll go in on Monday more or less at the same time, since on Monday, the Tri-Rail will be operating on a Sunday schedule (which is also a Saturday schedule), since most sensible people will take the day off. I mean, it’s Labor Day.
If there were ever proof needed that we have failed to protect the rights and well-being of workers in general, it’s the fact that most businesses and services are open on Labor Day. Even many white collar workers probably work on Labor Day (though many lawyers may not, since courts and other government facilities are closed).
I used to feel pretty good about going to a rather meaningless job, because the whole point‒as I deliberately decided and told myself‒was simply to keep myself alive while I wrote my books. But I’ve stopped writing my books now. I never really wrote them for anyone but myself, of course, but it does eventually get discouraging when no one but family actually reads them (to a good first approximation, anyway, though there are one or two exceptions).
I don’t tend to be the sort of person who craves popularity for its own sake, but it really would be nice if more people read and enjoyed my stories. I guess maybe I should share them all again on social media, perhaps for the last time, and maybe I’ll share my songs (my original ones, I mean) while I’m at it. Why not? One last desperate grab at passing driftwood seems like an appropriate act for a drowning man.
Heck, if I thought anyone would listen, I’d try to read more of The Chasm and the Collision out loud and post it up to YouTube. I have the first nine or so chapters up there, and a couple of my short stories. But I don’t think anyone (but I) has listened to them. They have fewer “views” even than some of the videos of my original songs or even the covers I’ve done.
Again, I do these things mainly for myself, not to pursue some dream of fame and fortune. Nevertheless, one does sometimes sputter to a halt when one is not merely alone in day to day life but receives no significant interest in one’s best, most creative products. It may be a fine thing to “dance like nobody’s watching”, but it’s less great to write like nobody’s reading, especially when it’s almost literally the case that no one is reading. Ditto for writing and/or playing music.
If I were a painter, after a while, it would become discouraging to keep painting if no one wants any of the works. I can completely sympathize with Van Gogh for shooting himself. And while I am glad he did a lot of painting before that‒I think his pictures are often deeply beautiful and unique‒I recognize that the fact that he is revered now is of absolutely no benefit to the man as he lived his life. There is no Doctor Who, “Vincent and the Doctor”, episode in real life to give a past figure‒Van Gogh, Herman Melville, whatever other famous-after-death artist one might consider‒a chance to know that, though unappreciated in life, the artist would eventually be recognized as someone who did something that would bring joy to many people. For a real person, there is only what happens during one’s life.
Getting famous only after death is almost a form of tragic irony. It’s not common, though. I think it’s more common for one to be relatively successful and famous in one’s lifetime and then be forgotten than the other way around. But many truly great creative artists‒Shakespeare, Picasso, Dickens, Beethoven, Rembrandt, Steinbeck, Tolkien‒were revered in their time and are still revered now.
I don’t quite know what point I’m trying to make. Maybe just that there is no long-term point. Or, maybe it’s a variant of the Woody Allen joke that he doesn’t want to achieve immortality through his work, he wants to achieve immortality through not dying.
But I don’t think it’s pointless to be respected (for one’s work) after death; I think it’s actually kind of wonderful to think that future generations might love and admire one’s work. But it would be especially beneficial if they had also done so during one’s lifetime‒some of them, anyway.
The future admiration of the world is probably just as ephemeral as is such admiration during one’s lifetime‒since, compared to infinity, any finite amount of time, no matter how large, is vanishingly, unnoticeably tiny, and is always unreasonably close to the beginning of any counting of time‒but it is almost certainly the case that being honestly appreciated for one’s work during one’s life is a wonderful thing, all else being equal.
I don’t know how I got on that subject; perhaps I’ll figure it out when I read and edit this before posting it. Whatever the case, I hope it was mildly entertaining for you. Feel free to follow the links to my books or to my Amazon author page, or to my YouTube “topic” page where my original music is, or to my personal YouTube list if you want to hear my “covers” and a few raw originals, if all that seems as if it might be somewhat interesting to you. And please try to have a good weekend, holiday or no holiday.
Thank you.
*Get it?