Preface
About twenty years ago, having written a number of educational and technical books for hire, I decided that I would write a book of my own — my own thoughts, in my own voice. It would be a book of critical and philosophical essays, describing pivotal points in my life and what they led me to believe is true about the world. I had majored in philosophy in college, and I had an unusual variety of life experiences to draw from, so I felt that I was reasonably prepared to translate the lessons I’d learned into a series of entertaining but edifying personal stories.
Since you haven’t seen my name on the New York Times best-seller list, it should be obvious that the book never got written. Believe me, I tried. My problem wasn’t lack of discipline — I had been self-employed for most of my adult life, and I was in the habit of devoting my days, and most of my nights, to work. Rather, the problem was my inability to say anything that stood up to scrutiny. I’d spend a day crafting a few pages of compelling prose; then I’d read it the next day, cry “This is bullshit,” and delete nearly all of it. After a couple of months of this, I found myself with a folder full of fragments that seemed worthy of non-deletion, but nothing that cohered into a meaningful essay. I reluctantly concluded that I hadn’t acquired enough wisdom to write a book.
Well, it’s twenty years later, and a couple of things have changed. First, I’m in my mid-60s, and I’ve had a chance — I hope — to accumulate a bit more wisdom. Second, there’s now a socially acceptable place to publish fragments that don’t necessarily cohere into anything meaningful. It’s called a blog.
I was understandably hesitant to start a blog. Many talented people maintain them, and much of what they have to say is at least occasionally interesting and enlightening. Given the sheer volume of blogs out there — and even accepting that much of their content is worthwhile — my natural reaction is to retreat, and not to read any of them. Putting myself in the shoes of my potential audience, I can assume that no one is likely to read mine, either, no matter how much effort and care I put into it. In that case, why bother?
The answer begins with the long-ago death of my father. (Yes, I’m about to describe a pivotal life experience and tell you what it let me to believe about the world. Book or no book, that’s still my M.O.!) Aaron Schaeffer, a lifetime smoker, died of metastatic lung cancer at age 61. He had been born in the Bronx to impoverished immigrants who had never quite adapted to life beyond the shtetl. (His first language was Yiddish; he learned English only when he started attending school.) He had leanings toward being an artist, but chose to become a mechanical engineer because he knew that was the only way he’d be able to support a family. When he married my mother, it was generally accepted that she was “marrying down,” and he was never quite able to live up to her expectations. His son — that is, I — proved to be something of a disappointment, and our relationship was never close. But when I went to Florida after his death to help my mom sort through his things, I discovered that he had boxes and boxes of memorabilia stacked in the garage — records of engineering patents he’d acquired, commendations and awards he’d won after his midlife career change to educational administration, minutes of meetings he’d chaired during his tenure as president of our local synagogue, articles he’d written, news clippings he’d appeared in.
I looked through it all, and then threw it all away. As much as they must have meant to him, none of these mementos had any value to my mother, my sister, or me. As I heaved the precious contents of his boxes into the dumpster, I was left with a deep sense of the futility and meaninglessness of life.
But then a funny thing happened: I got old. I’ve passed the age that my father was when he died, and I’ve outlived my mother and sister as well. And as it turns out, I have boxes and boxes of memorabilia that mark the milestones, events, and achievements of my life. As irrational as I know it to be — and even knowing that after I die, all of it will be tossed into the dumpster just as my father’s things were — I can’t part with them while I’m alive. To keep going, I need this tangible evidence that my life has meaning, even if (as I strongly suspect) it doesn’t. I accept that need — call it self-delusion, if you will — as part of being human. And here’s what I’ve lately come to realize: I have mental boxes that are every bit as prized as the physical boxes. I have memories, thoughts, and ideas that feel tremendously valuable to me. Whether they actually are valuable is beside the point. I feel the need to make them tangible — if not in a book, then in a blog. If you read it, and if you get anything useful, enjoyable, or thought-provoking from it, then I’ll be extremely happy. But ultimately, I’m not doing this for you; I’m doing it for me.
Mark, I thoroughly enjoyed reading these pieces and look forward to reading more. “Preface” was particularly interesting to me because I remember and can still picture your parents, I learned about your father’s background and very surprised to learn about the relationship between you and your father. You were always the smartest kid in school! You were creative (drama club) and always a nice person…..what’s there to be disappointed about?! It doesn’t surprise me at all that you held the jobs you listed and as you said, without formal training in them. Always knew you’d go far and do well!! What DOES surprise me, however, is your use of the term “bullshit” because I never heard that from you back in the day. LOL!!!!! Please keep writing!
Laura, your comment inspired a whole new essay! See today’s latest blog post.
Well, I enjoyed every one. Preface in particular hit a bit of nerve as I start to tackle my own mortality and that of my parents. My Father, like yours was, a lifelong smoker and now in his early 70’s is rapidly paying the price.
I think that the only important thing we leave on this earth is how we made people FEEL. I am sorry that the legacy your father left you was a feeling he was disappointed. Something tells me that he had a mental box of his own that flowed with pride and love for you.
Take care.
Well, I was there for some of the earliest experiments, so no coincidence I’m here now. In fact, I may have an original, hand-written copy of “Those Were The Daisies, My Friend” somewhere in the archives. More able learners, indeed. 😉
Well done, Mark. I can still remember “Deepdale Court” – it’s funny what sticks in my mind, after all these years.
Peter
Mark,
Thank you for some wonderful memories. I was a college classmate of your parents. We remained friends for many years after graduation. They are still missed.
Gloria and Herb Skulnik.
Nice blog, Mark. I don’t generally read blogs, the exception being when I know someone. I liked your analysis of the reasons for doing a blog. I’ve toyed with the idea of starting one for years, but never have. However, I find that I do enjoy writing book reviews and in the process of doing that, somehow reviews turn into blog-like entries which have not much to do with the book but a lot to do with me, my reactions, memories, and so on.
Like you, I’ve done a lot of writing and editing, as well as teaching writing. I always assumed I’d become a writer full time, but I never did. Some of my friends are writers, and a few are quite successful. I’ve even made it onto the dedication page of a couple books for help given to friends writing books. A Pulitzer-prize winning book critic once told me I had a “unique voice” and should try to publish something. But, other than a few paid book reviews and some travel writing that I was “paid” for by being sent on various press junkets, oh, and as one of many co-authors on a few papers on immunotoxicology (my brief “science writer” phase), I’m unpublished.*
This makes me feel quite guilty, honestly. Am I afraid of failure or just lazy? Or, do I just not like the idea of being judged in a professional arena? I wrestle with these thoughts from time to time, and then go back to writing unpaid book reviews on GoodReads, where I seem to have a lot of followers, not that that means anything. (Some really crap writers seem to attract followers by dint of “friending” everyone on the site and tireless self promotion.)
Actually, I think the idea of self-promotion is what bothers me most. I guess that’s what agents are for, but then I’d probably face pressure to write in a certain style or genre, and that idea bothers me almost as much.
So three cheers for blogs, where you can say whatever the hell you want to, whenever you want to!
(*Just remembered that I have been published for solo work. One of my Washington Post book reviews, “You Call That a Knife?” was included in a book of literary criticism, though I never could figure out why other than it was humorous. And then I had a classic-style ghost story published in a literary magazine devoted to the genre. I found both experiences a little unnerving, and of course I still feel guilty for not producing more of the same.)
Very relatable as I recently moved and had to go through the photos and memorabilia of my family and my husband’s. At first I couldn’t wait to toss it all, but decided to first review everything there was. It brought back memories of long forgotten times both good and bad. In the end I decided it was still just baggage to move from one place to the other. We sold much of it in an estate sale and now others can find meaning and enjoyment in those items. And they can schlep it from one place to another. 😎